than a pending high school
sophomore.
“Okay, the prick then.”
It wasn’t worth arguing with him. “Call me
when you get to the Outer Banks.”
“I told them I could drive and we’d be there
tonight.”
“You can’t drive out of state on a learner’s
permit and besides, that gas-guzzling behemoth isn’t easy to drive.”
“That’s only if I get caught or run something
over.”
“In that case, you’d have bigger things to
worry about when you got home to me.”
He chuckled at my statement as only Clinton
could. “I’m just joking, Mom.”
“I’d better let you go,” I told my son when I
heard his grandparents “gently” discussing something in the background.
Now that they were both retired, Conrad and
Marti were together all the time. It left them with a lot of opportunity for
such discussions.
Clinton and I said our goodbyes and then I
found myself with nothing to do again. I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a
caged animal. My identity was Jennifer Gardner; mother, teacher, and wife.
The boys were almost grown. In three short years, Clinton would be finished
with high school and maybe on his way to college—or working on a chain gang, if
he didn’t get himself straightened out. Carson would be away at college and
Hudson would be settled into his career. School was fine. School was my
sanctuary. But summer vacation left me with nothing to do. Nowhere to go.
And the wife part, well, that wasn’t really anything, was it? I had a husband who
was never home. When he was, he was occupied. I missed having a best friend.
A partner. A lover. Someone that recognized when something was wrong with
me. Someone that didn’t let me face the unknown on my own.
Maybe I was being selfish, but I wanted that
again. I deserved to have it again. I was 42 years old. On a good day, I
could still fit into size six jeans. On a bad day, it was a comfortable size
eight. I exercised regularly and kept up with my appearance. Men still flirted
with me from time to time and I’d been told on several occasions I was
attractive. I didn’t always see myself that way. No. When I looked into the
mirror, I saw the crow’s feet by my eyes, the patch of gray roots where my hair
parted when it was time for my hairdresser to do a touch-up, and breasts that had
settled somewhere south of where they’d started. But even though they were
less firm, I was happy just to have them. Looks aside, I had plenty to offer
on an intellectual level as well. I knew I was a worthy companion. For
someone.
Steve Graves was 47. He’d been married once
a long time ago. It ended after nine years. His ex-wife left not long after
they found out he was infertile. She wanted children, he couldn’t give then to
her, and she didn’t want to adopt. He never remarried and considered himself
quite the confirmed bachelor or so he told us at school, often bragging about
his “conquests” and the single life.
However, I saw through his charade and called
him on it when we were in Philadelphia. The two of us had left our teacher
colleagues behind in the hotel bar where they were partying it up and walked
back to our rooms together. When I told him of my suspicions, he gave me a
shrug and a tight smile before explaining to me how creating an active social
life saved him from the blind dates everyone seemed hell bent on setting him up
on. Being single, people assumed he was lonely and unhappy. He wasn’t either
of those, but no one ever believed him. His fictional bragging had taken care
of that problem. He winked at me before saying he wasn’t a complete celibate though
either.
We talked outside of the door to my room. It
was all rather innocent. And then our conversation turned more serious. I
invited him inside where the two of us poured our hearts out over a bottle of
merlot we ordered from room service. It was amazing how easily we could talk to
each other about incredibly personal things. Things about my marriage I’d
never told anyone else.
sophomore.
“Okay, the prick then.”
It wasn’t worth arguing with him. “Call me
when you get to the Outer Banks.”
“I told them I could drive and we’d be there
tonight.”
“You can’t drive out of state on a learner’s
permit and besides, that gas-guzzling behemoth isn’t easy to drive.”
“That’s only if I get caught or run something
over.”
“In that case, you’d have bigger things to
worry about when you got home to me.”
He chuckled at my statement as only Clinton
could. “I’m just joking, Mom.”
“I’d better let you go,” I told my son when I
heard his grandparents “gently” discussing something in the background.
Now that they were both retired, Conrad and
Marti were together all the time. It left them with a lot of opportunity for
such discussions.
Clinton and I said our goodbyes and then I
found myself with nothing to do again. I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a
caged animal. My identity was Jennifer Gardner; mother, teacher, and wife.
The boys were almost grown. In three short years, Clinton would be finished
with high school and maybe on his way to college—or working on a chain gang, if
he didn’t get himself straightened out. Carson would be away at college and
Hudson would be settled into his career. School was fine. School was my
sanctuary. But summer vacation left me with nothing to do. Nowhere to go.
And the wife part, well, that wasn’t really anything, was it? I had a husband who
was never home. When he was, he was occupied. I missed having a best friend.
A partner. A lover. Someone that recognized when something was wrong with
me. Someone that didn’t let me face the unknown on my own.
Maybe I was being selfish, but I wanted that
again. I deserved to have it again. I was 42 years old. On a good day, I
could still fit into size six jeans. On a bad day, it was a comfortable size
eight. I exercised regularly and kept up with my appearance. Men still flirted
with me from time to time and I’d been told on several occasions I was
attractive. I didn’t always see myself that way. No. When I looked into the
mirror, I saw the crow’s feet by my eyes, the patch of gray roots where my hair
parted when it was time for my hairdresser to do a touch-up, and breasts that had
settled somewhere south of where they’d started. But even though they were
less firm, I was happy just to have them. Looks aside, I had plenty to offer
on an intellectual level as well. I knew I was a worthy companion. For
someone.
Steve Graves was 47. He’d been married once
a long time ago. It ended after nine years. His ex-wife left not long after
they found out he was infertile. She wanted children, he couldn’t give then to
her, and she didn’t want to adopt. He never remarried and considered himself
quite the confirmed bachelor or so he told us at school, often bragging about
his “conquests” and the single life.
However, I saw through his charade and called
him on it when we were in Philadelphia. The two of us had left our teacher
colleagues behind in the hotel bar where they were partying it up and walked
back to our rooms together. When I told him of my suspicions, he gave me a
shrug and a tight smile before explaining to me how creating an active social
life saved him from the blind dates everyone seemed hell bent on setting him up
on. Being single, people assumed he was lonely and unhappy. He wasn’t either
of those, but no one ever believed him. His fictional bragging had taken care
of that problem. He winked at me before saying he wasn’t a complete celibate though
either.
We talked outside of the door to my room. It
was all rather innocent. And then our conversation turned more serious. I
invited him inside where the two of us poured our hearts out over a bottle of
merlot we ordered from room service. It was amazing how easily we could talk to
each other about incredibly personal things. Things about my marriage I’d
never told anyone else.
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