superhero. Most years, excess soft flesh hung over his belt, making him hide behind the kids in every family photo. But no matter how his exterior changed, I only saw Mark, the man I loved.
He’d had his hair shaved, as well as grown long enough for a ponytail, which he liked to pull up into a little fountain on top of his head like a sumo wrestler. His hairstyle changed from straightened to curly, dyed, shaved, shaped... I’d seen him with every manner of facial hair, too, from full beards and goatees to the sexy George Clooney three-days-growth of hair I favored. His constant desire to get just the right “look” led to braces on his teeth, Lasik surgery, monthly facials, weekly colon cleansing treatments, and every sort of vitamin, mineral, herb, or muscle supplement money could buy. I watched him go through periods of wearing nothing but overalls and torn work clothes to teen-inspired fad clothes few men his age would dare attempt to pull off. Some phases had him wearing tight t-shirts, dark glasses, and gold chains like a GQ model. Later, it would be sporty baseball hats, followed by floppy brimmed hats. Next it was cowboy hats, and the year he went “ghetto” it was ski caps and grunge all the way.
I watched my husband follow a variety of diets, too. He became a vegetarian, a raw foodie and juicer, a candy- and junk-food-crazed binger, and a consummate carnivore and protein-obsessed eater, all in the course of a few years. He variously gave up sugar, carbs, wheat gluten, alcohol, soda, and meat in a never-ending cycle of experimentation, passionately insisting he had one or another physical affliction that made it necessary to follow a special diet. He was going to write a book about whatever health regimen he embraced in the moment, but before he ever wrote a page, he’d be binging on those very things he had blacklisted only a week prior.
His ever-shifting moods affected me personally in ways outsiders would never understand. I’d experienced months where he was a sensuous, extraordinary lover, followed by years where he would go to any length to avoid touching me in any intimate way, his excuses so thin and the periods of abstinence dragging on so long I was left questioning his sexual orientation and the authenticity of our married life together. At times like these, I was convinced marriage to him was just an excuse to play house. I desperately craved a lover rather than a glorified roommate, but loved him too much to do anything other than share my heartache in endless heart-to-hearts with him as I begged him to visit his issues so we could both be emotionally and physically satisfied. There were always plenty of excuses and reasons for his abstinence, so when nothing improved, I just prayed for the next period of change in hopes his veil-thin excuses for why he was disinterested in a physical relationship would eventually be expended. Sometimes I’d get lucky and we’d have short periods of intimacy. They just never lasted long and always left me more deeply feeling the poignancy of loss.
I patiently endured periods where my husband claimed all he wanted in life was to become a dancer, a potter, a landscape designer, an interior decorator, a singer, a business manager, a playwright, a wood artist, a graphic designer, a realtor, an architect, and a Tony Robbins life coach. I watched him enroll in college but never finish, discuss business ideas that were promising yet never went beyond the talking stage, and listened to him type out the first chapter (only) of several books or a play he planned to write. I was always encouraging and supportive, but over the years had learned to never get too excited or drawn into his enthusiasm because as soon as we devoted the lion’s share of our resources to his proclaimed passion, and the time came for him to dig in and face the drudgery of hard work, he’d announce, “Never mind, I’m over that now.”
Yes, I was supportive, but at the same time I had to do
He’d had his hair shaved, as well as grown long enough for a ponytail, which he liked to pull up into a little fountain on top of his head like a sumo wrestler. His hairstyle changed from straightened to curly, dyed, shaved, shaped... I’d seen him with every manner of facial hair, too, from full beards and goatees to the sexy George Clooney three-days-growth of hair I favored. His constant desire to get just the right “look” led to braces on his teeth, Lasik surgery, monthly facials, weekly colon cleansing treatments, and every sort of vitamin, mineral, herb, or muscle supplement money could buy. I watched him go through periods of wearing nothing but overalls and torn work clothes to teen-inspired fad clothes few men his age would dare attempt to pull off. Some phases had him wearing tight t-shirts, dark glasses, and gold chains like a GQ model. Later, it would be sporty baseball hats, followed by floppy brimmed hats. Next it was cowboy hats, and the year he went “ghetto” it was ski caps and grunge all the way.
I watched my husband follow a variety of diets, too. He became a vegetarian, a raw foodie and juicer, a candy- and junk-food-crazed binger, and a consummate carnivore and protein-obsessed eater, all in the course of a few years. He variously gave up sugar, carbs, wheat gluten, alcohol, soda, and meat in a never-ending cycle of experimentation, passionately insisting he had one or another physical affliction that made it necessary to follow a special diet. He was going to write a book about whatever health regimen he embraced in the moment, but before he ever wrote a page, he’d be binging on those very things he had blacklisted only a week prior.
His ever-shifting moods affected me personally in ways outsiders would never understand. I’d experienced months where he was a sensuous, extraordinary lover, followed by years where he would go to any length to avoid touching me in any intimate way, his excuses so thin and the periods of abstinence dragging on so long I was left questioning his sexual orientation and the authenticity of our married life together. At times like these, I was convinced marriage to him was just an excuse to play house. I desperately craved a lover rather than a glorified roommate, but loved him too much to do anything other than share my heartache in endless heart-to-hearts with him as I begged him to visit his issues so we could both be emotionally and physically satisfied. There were always plenty of excuses and reasons for his abstinence, so when nothing improved, I just prayed for the next period of change in hopes his veil-thin excuses for why he was disinterested in a physical relationship would eventually be expended. Sometimes I’d get lucky and we’d have short periods of intimacy. They just never lasted long and always left me more deeply feeling the poignancy of loss.
I patiently endured periods where my husband claimed all he wanted in life was to become a dancer, a potter, a landscape designer, an interior decorator, a singer, a business manager, a playwright, a wood artist, a graphic designer, a realtor, an architect, and a Tony Robbins life coach. I watched him enroll in college but never finish, discuss business ideas that were promising yet never went beyond the talking stage, and listened to him type out the first chapter (only) of several books or a play he planned to write. I was always encouraging and supportive, but over the years had learned to never get too excited or drawn into his enthusiasm because as soon as we devoted the lion’s share of our resources to his proclaimed passion, and the time came for him to dig in and face the drudgery of hard work, he’d announce, “Never mind, I’m over that now.”
Yes, I was supportive, but at the same time I had to do
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