Couplehood Read online

  They haven’t developed this taste for blood. They’re too busy holding hands, being polite. “Which movie would you rather see? Because if you’d rather see something else … Oh, look—everything seems to be sold out.”

  Of course it’s sold out! It’s Saturday, eight o’clock. Separate! Split up! Do your jobs, be nice to each other afterward.

  Even when you get into the theater, it’s not over. You have to get seats. Now, again, there’s a science to this.

  You walk into the theater, grab the first two seats you see. Doesn’t matter where they are, and you may very well not sit there. But grab them. That’s your fallback position.

  Now one of you guards the fallback position, while the other one goes to look for better seats. You set out in the jungle with a machete and a map, and periodically throw your gaze back to the fallback position, secure in the knowledge that, at worst, you’ve got two sucky seats in the back waiting for you.

  To find better seats, you have to bother other people. You see a guy next to a jacket. “Excuse me, is that seat taken?” You have to ask. Because you don’t know—Is he saving it? Is he dating his clothing? It’s not always clear.

  Sometimes you see a jacket and a hat—he’s waiting for two friends. Once in a while you see a trail of clothing: jacket, hat, shoes, pants, socks, underwear, tie clip, belt—and way down at the end there’s one guy sitting there naked and embarrassed. “Yes, they’re all coming back. We’re a group of twelve—I underdressed. I didn’t think this through. Do you mind moving on? Please!”

  And when you find your seats, it’s still not over. One of you has to go back out to get the popcorn. That’s usually my job. I’m happy to do it, but there’s no moment more embarrassing than when you come back into that dark theater and realize you don’t know where you’re sitting. Suddenly, you’re 4 years old and lost at the circus. You’re near tears: “Honey? Honey—” You’re sitting in people’s laps: “Sorry, wrong row.… Honey, where are you? … I got the Gummi Bears you wanted.…”

  If you can’t find the seats, you’ve got to go to the front row and walk up the entire aisle, in plain view of everyone, hoping your partner will see you and come to your rescue. Of course, they’re watching the movie at this point, and the last thing they’re thinking about is you.

  So you’re wandering up and down the aisle like an idiot. “Help me … somebody … don’t you see I’m dying here?” You’re standing in front of a crowd with your arms full of crap you didn’t even want. “Someone pull me out of this hell!”

  You bump into other guys who are just as lost.

  “Honey?!”

  “Babe?!”

  “Sweetheart?!”

  “Hey, my wife is ‘sweetheart.’ ”

  “Sorry … HONEY?”

  That’s all you hear: men whining, and women whispering men’s names loudly.

  “Steve! Steve!”

  “Leonard!”

  “Mitchell! I’m over here!”

  It’s pathetic. In this situation, my advice is—sit next to any woman, it doesn’t matter who. And just level with her. “Look, Mitchell is not coming back. I just saw him go into the wrong theater, so he won’t be back for some time. My wife is sitting with a guy named Steve, Steve is with Leonard’s wife—it’s all screwed up. But I’m a guy, I got popcorn, it’s the same exact thing. So just tell me what I missed. What happened so far?”

  You watch the movie, and you settle up afterward.

  There are other benefits to having a Permanent Partner.

  Ever been invited somewhere you really don’t want to go? If you’re married, you always have someone else to blame.

  “Next Saturday? You know, I’d love to, but I’m pretty sure my wife made plans.… Yeah, let me check with her and get back to you.”

  Of course, I try to weasel out of getting back to them, too.

  “You know, honey, I really think you should call them. After all, they’re your friends.… Alright, they’re my friends, but you met them, didn’t you? Well, there you go. Besides, they like you better. I’ll tell you what. I’ll dial and you talk to them. Is that fair? We’ll split it 50–50.”

  Three weeks ago, my wife tells me we’re going to a party for a woman she works with who is going to have a baby. I’m uneasy.

  “What is this—like a shower?”

  She says, “No, it’s not a shower. It’s a party.”

  “There going to be guys there?” I ask.

  She says, “Yes, there’ll be guys there.”

  Then it hit me: when did this happen? I spent the first big chunk of my life wondering if there were going to be girls there; now I’m checking to make sure there are guys there. Something has changed.

  You see, single men judge social events solely by How Many Women Are Going to Be There. It’s what they ask before they go, and what they talk about when they get back. No matter what the event. It could be a funeral. “Man, you should have seen this woman sitting behind the widow. Was she gorgeous.”

  It could be anything. A soccer riot. “I was pressed against this girl from Santiago you would not believe.”

  But now that I’m married and no longer looking to meet women, I want to make sure there are other married guys there, so I’m not the only one not meeting women.

  In fact, it’s not about meeting women. It’s a matter of Balance. There’s a Guy-to-Girl Ratio that makes us comfortable, and we’re always checking that ratio.

  That’s why the minute somebody has a baby, that’s the first question: “Boy or girl?” You need to know. We’re keeping track. A perpetual, universal head count: how many boys, how many girls. “So, what’d they have—boy or a girl? Which is it? The Penis Model, or the Not-So-Much-A-Penis Model? Either one is great, I just need to know.”

  No wonder we’re all so consumed with sex: from the second we’re born, that’s the first place everybody’s looking. They pull you out: “Let’s see what you got—specifically there.”

  They don’t care if you have a head or a back, but whatever is going on between your legs—they need to know now.

  Anyway, we go to this friend’s baby’s party, and somehow I was responsible for getting the card.

  How do you find the right card for someone you’ve never heard of?

  What is the exact sentiment you’re trying to express?

  “I know nothing about you, but I’m sure you’re a nice enough person.”

  “We hardly know you, what did you expect—cash?” You never see those kind of cards.

  I love when they take a card and concoct every family/relationship combination imaginable: “From the Two of Us to the Two of You,” “From the Three of Us to the Three of You,” “From Some of Us to All of You,” “From Both of Us to Nobody in Your Area …”

  Then they break it up by occupations: “To a Wonderful Boss from a Terrific Secretary,” “From a Belligerent Osteopath to a Nifty Teamster.” Every job, every adjective.

  I once went up to the guy at the register and said, “You know, a friend of mine just got a job on the same day as his anniversary, and his dog just had puppies, but sadly his grandfather passed away that afternoon. Is there a card that might cover the whole thing?”

  He said, “Sure. From the whole family, or just yourself?”

  So they have it. You just have to ask.

  And let me just say this:

  It is important that you get the right card. Don’t get one that’s almost right and try to change it by hand. People know when you do that, and they don’t enjoy it. They mock you when you leave.

  And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, either. You want a “Dad” card, but they only have “Grandpa,” so you think, “We’ll cross out ‘Grand’ and make it ‘Pa.’ That’ll work.… And, hey, everybody call him ‘Pa,’ so I don’t look stupid. ‘Hi, Pa,’ ‘How ya doing, Pa?’ It’ll be like ‘Bonanza,’ it’ll be fun.”

  Or a little kid-card that you adjust for adults? “Today you’re five, you’re a bi
g boy.” Little flick of the pen: “ ‘Well, today you’re sixty-five.’ How do you like that? ‘Today you’re sixty-five, boy-o-boy.’ We’ll make the giraffe a set of golf clubs, he’ll never know. His neck becomes a nine iron, and it’s a little bag with hooves …”

  This shower-that’s-not-a-shower-just-a-party turns out to be a surprise party. Can someone please explain to me the appeal of the Surprise Party?

  It’s never worth the effort. You spend months planning, keeping secrets, avoiding people, lying, scheming, spreading misinformation—all so that when the guy walks in the room, you yell, “SURPRISE!” and he calmly goes, “Hmm, well I’ll be darned.”

  That’s it. Three seconds. Just so the guy can be darned. After the three seconds, you have the exact same party you would have had if the guy knew the whole time.

  And if you’re the surprise, it’s even worse, because you have to spend the whole evening answering the same question: “Did you know? When did you know? You didn’t know? Oh, come on, you knew. You had to know! When did you know?”

  You have to convince them. “I didn’t know. I didn’t. I’m telling you, I didn’t know. It’s my party—stop grilling me.”

  Also, if you’re the one being surprised, no one talks to you for three weeks before. They’re afraid of blowing the surprise. So they don’t call you, they won’t get together with you, nothing. They avoid you like the plague.

  Now you’re depressed: you’re getting older and you have no friends.

  So you figure, “Fine. I’ll spend my birthday alone. Who needs them?”

  You walk in: “SURPRISE!!!” And now you’ve got to spend an evening with two hundred people you’re not talking to anymore.

  A big party hazard for couples is Flirting. Everyone loves to do it, no one likes to be called on it.

  Here’s my thinking: The only reason people flirt is they want to know they still Have It. They don’t necessarily want to do anything with it, but in case they ever do, it’s good to know it’s still there.

  You’re at a party, you’re talking to someone, you’re laughing, they’re laughing … but what you’re really thinking is:

  “If I weren’t married, and you weren’t married, and no one ever knew what other people do, and actions had no consequences, and pretty much everything in the universe was different than it actually is—then something would actually happen here, wouldn’t it? It would? I knew it! I just knew it. Alright—I’ll see ya around. I just wanted to make sure.”

  Even if someone you know has an affair, you get hurt, because the discussion inevitably seeps over to your house.

  “Isn’t that unbelievable about Wendy and Michael?”

  “Really.”

  “If that ever happened to us, would you leave me?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I am serious. I would kill you and then leave you.”

  The smart thing would be to drop it here. (But if you were really smart, you wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.)

  “No kidding around, you would really leave me?”

  “What is the POINT of this conversation?”

  “No point … I would just hate to think that we couldn’t survive a bump like that …”

  “What bump?”

  “No bump!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m just saying … hypothetically.”

  “And why are you bringing this up now? Is there something you want to tell me?”

  And there is no way out. You have to walk out of the house, go over to Wendy and Michael’s house, and smack them because this whole thing is basically their fault.

  The

  “Turn

  Around

  and Look”

  Certain realities of marriage don’t kick in right away. I was married six, seven months—happily married, joyfully married—and still, one day it just hit me: “I’m never going to be with any other woman naked, ever? Seriously?… In other words, out of all the different people, body types, shapes, and sizes, you’re saying: These are the last breasts I’m ever gonna touch? Interesting.… I don’t think I understood that.”

  It has to settle in. Bring it up again the next day. “Just to clarify … What you’re saying is: These hands will not touch the skin of another woman for, literally, ever? No matter what? … Even if we’re in different countries? Or we’re mad at each other or something? Uh-huh.… So, you’re saying, basically, ‘No.’ … ‘No’ would be the word for me to hang on to here.… Geez.… And the same for you? I’m the last guy you’re ever going to see naked? Wow.… well, good luck to you.”

  It’s a mourning process you must go through together.

  Because no matter how much in love two people are, you never lose sight of the fact that there are other people out there, too. And several of them are attractive. You can’t help but notice this.

  And this has nothing to do with Not Committing. It’s easy to commit. The hard part is ruling out other commitments.

  I learned this from my dog.

  I’m eating potato chips; my dog comes over and stares at me with those doggy eyes.

  “Can I have a potato chip, please?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He sits right there. Stares at me.

  “Can I have a potato chip, please?”

  As if we didn’t just have this conversation.

  “Come on, just give me one, I’ll never bother you again.”

  “Alright, fine. Here.”

  Chomp!

  “Could I try one more, please?”

  “You said that was the last one.”

  “Well, I made a mistake. Can I have that one? The one going in your mouth? That’s the one I really want.”

  “You sure this time?”

  “Yes. That’s the one that will satisfy my curiosity about all potato chips. I swear it this time.”

  It’s not the potato chip he wants. He just wants to know he can have another potato chip afterward.

  Maybe we’re foolishly searching for something even more perfect.

  Like when you’re in a store, and you’re ready to buy something, but you still ask the guy if there’s anything “in the back.”

  “You don’t have this a little bigger? A little smaller? More blue? Less blue?”

  “No, just what’s out there.”

  “Well, you want to do me a favor and go look in the back?”

  “We don’t even have a ‘back.’ We just have an ‘out there.’ If you haven’t seen it out there, then there’s no such thing. I’d go with what you already got there.”

  But still, we look. I’ve seen men—adult men, mature men, experienced men—sow their wild oats, find a wonderful mate, and say, “That’s it, I’m ready to settle down.” Then a woman from another country walks by—“Hey, I didn’t know she was out there. I may have spoken too soon.… Apparently she is a consideration as well.…”

  Again, I refer you to my dog.

  Did you ever ask a dog if they want to go out for a walk while they’re already out for a walk? They still get excited. The fact that they’re currently enjoying a walk doesn’t matter. They want to see what a different walk would be like.

  Sometimes I’m embarrassed by how powerful the “turn around and look” instinct is. I was once driving and saw a woman driving by in the opposite direction, and I actually turned around to look. I’m staring at her car. I’m basically straining to look at the rear end of a Toyota Camry, but still, I felt the need to look.

  I’m not proud of this, you understand, I’m just saying.

  Often, the curiosity we have is very limited, and very specific, and surprisingly tame. I know many is the occasion I’ve seen an attractive woman, and all I’ve wanted to say was, “Excuse me, but could I just feel your calf?”

  More as a research project than anything else. “I was interested in the area on your back—just above your belt. It has an alluring muscularity, yet it’s in no way unfeminine
. What exactly would that feel like? Rather smooth and nice, I’d imagine. May I?”

  And then, with her blessing, you feel the back, and you’re done.

  “Just as I imagined: Fleshy and Good. Taut, yet not unyielding. Thank you.” And you go on your way.

  I was recently out for dinner with my loved one and noticed a striking woman sitting a few tables over. Now, because I’m not an idiot, I made a point of not noticing her. You wouldn’t believe how I didn’t notice her. She could have burst into flames—I’m telling you, I wouldn’t have noticed.

  My wife notices I’m not noticing.

  She says, “She is cute.”

  “Who?”

  “ ‘Who?’ ” she says, mocking me. “Miss 110 pounds of blonde over there.”

  “Where?”

  “Oh stop.”

  I didn’t even get credit for not looking. I was apparently whimpering like a dog trying not to go for the biscuit on his nose.

  Now, if you’re ever out with the One For Whom You’ve Forsaken All Others, and you do find you’re inadvertently gazing at Other, you can try to recover some dignity by pretending you’re looking for some specific reason.

  “Hey, Honey, doesn’t that woman look like your cousin Cheryl?”

  And if they want to cooperate, they’ll say, “Where? Her? She looks nothing like Cheryl.” And you laugh it off. “I guess I’m just a big idiot,” and you keep walking.

  Or, you say, “Hey, look at that girl over there. She’s got a stomach like a guy.”

  Your loved one turns around. “Where?”

  “Oh, you can’t see it now. She just sat down.”

  The key to this one is bringing it up first. Otherwise, you have that much more ill will to overcome.

  Now again, I’m not proud of any of this behavior. I’m just passing it on to you, the consumer.

  Sometimes, you can both stare at people and enjoy a rousing game of “Let’s Figure Out What’s Wrong with Them.” Fun in airports, restaurants, wherever you go.

  “See that girl over there—with the earrings? She’s with security. Used to be CIA.”