Today my wife told me that she wanted back the man that she had married. She meant the man I was when we got married. That man, she said, was funny and kind and caring and sweet and was always very tender and never got angry and was always mellow and completely in control of everything.
I thought about that man. My wife is right. He was a great guy. Late 20s, still had all his hair, was relatively in shape (no middle aged spread, no arthritis, no back problems). That guy hadn't yet lost his parents, his grandparents, his wife's parents.
That guy still hadn't gone through raising three kids, one of whom stopped speaking to him 15 years ago. He hadn't moved states, been though downsizing and layoffs, been fired, been told he was unqualified for a position he'd been working for seven years. He hadn't faced major emergency room visits for his wife who nearly died from a rupturing gall bladder. He hadn't yet had to drive four hours to rescue his daughter from a violent roommate.
That guy hadn't yet had to watch his savings dwindle to repair his house that the insurance wouldn't cover, never had cars die, been stranded, helpless, apart from his kids in hurricanes, hadn't yet reached his fifties and still wondering if he will ever have enough money to retire.
So my first thought after wondering about that great, wonderful, guy, was "That guy didn't fucking survive three decades of this thing called LIFE!"
But that would have been mean. So, I just told my wife, "He's still here. He's still me. I'll do better."
And she said, "You've been saying that for over 25 years."
