Page 21 of The Marriage Game

Now we’re older and wiser and nothing is romantic. Especially not running from airline security to your gate—in cowboy boots that you haven’t broken in yet, but had to wear because you couldn’t fit them in your darn carryon.

I was hobbling by the time we reached the Jetway to the airplane. Max meanwhile had a huge smile on his face, happy to be the last one boarding the plane.

He, of course, did not have on his new cowboy boots. I imagine they’re back at home nestled uselessly in the box.

The second thing contributing to the subpar quality of this trip is the fact that our late booking of this flight meant we had no choice in our seats. As a result, we are seated in the very last zone of the plane, both stuck in middle seats, and separated by three rows. Max fared slightly better than me; he’s sitting between a sleeping college-aged looking guy and a chatty redhead. Meanwhile I’m sitting between an older married couple who keeps leaning over me to talk to each other. I offered to switch, but the man (sitting in the aisle seat) explained that he’s claustrophobic and the woman (window seat) said she likes to lean her head against the window so she can sleep.

It should be noted that I haven’t actually seen her lean her head against the window once. Nor is she showing any signs of going to sleep. On the contrary, she and her husband seem to have a lot to catch up on. They’ve been talking nonstop this whole flight, meaning I’m now privy to quite a few of the ins and outs of their daily lives. For instance, Mick, here, keeps forgetting to take his Lactaid pill before consuming dairy. As one can imagine, this is quite a bother to poor Dorothy who has to deal with the ramifications of this oversight. Namely: deadly gas.

Of course this doesn’t stop her from intermittently offering him a plethora of snacks, many of which, I might add, contain dairy.

At least she also offers me the snacks too. I have to pass because unfortunately my metabolism is not what it once was, and I missed my daily walk today. Though, I suppose our sprint to the gate could count as a workout. Still, I’ll let Mick enjoy his chocolate covered raisins alone.

Meanwhile Max appears to be having a jolly good time with his red-headed seatmate. They’ve been chatting away for the better part of an hour. In my head this trip was going to be an opportunity for us to reconnect as a couple and relight the fire in our marriage, but we’re not even sitting together. Instead he’sup there with the world’s flirtiest airline passenger (probably…I can’t actually hear what either of them are saying, but I heard her laugh once, which is total flirt behavior). I want to call an audible and cancel this whole thing. Turn this plane around, Captain. But I’m too late for that, because, as the screen on the back of the chair in front of me shows, we don’t have that much longer to go before we’ll be preparing for landing. Yikes, it also says that the weather in Montana is 60 degrees, clear and sunny.

60 degrees? I shiver in spite of myself. We left temperatures of 85 in Arizona. I might freeze here. Or…perhaps it will be an opportunity for Max to keep me warm. Yes, I’m going to dial back the Miss Pessimist that’s been running this vacation so far and invite Miss Optimist to take the wheel.

Cold temperatures = prime cuddling and sharing of sweatshirt opportunities.

Alright, I’m back in this thing.

“Now, dear, you never did say what you’re headed to Montana for,” Dorothy says. Belatedly I realize she’s addressing me, not Mick—he’s not even in his seat. At some point during my silent brain reset he must’ve gotten up to use the bathroom.

“Oh, my husband and I are going on a couples’ retreat,” I tell her.

“Really?” Dorothy exclaims. “So are we!”

“Wow,” I say in surprise. Luke may have helped organize this retreat, but he worked with multiple pastors across the western states–they have couples coming in from all over. Still, I never expected that the couple surrounding me would be headed for the same retreat as Max and me. “What a coincidence.”

“It is indeed,” Dorothy says with a beam. “We’ve been married for 37 years now, if you can believe it. And we love these couples’ retreats. But enough about us— where is your husband? Why aren’t you sitting with him?” Her gaze turns concerned. “Arethings that bad between you? Is this retreat a last ditch attempt to save your marriage?”

“What, no!” I immediately protest, even though I was sort of just thinking of it that way. Obviously I was being dramatic, though. My marriage isn’t that bad. I love Max and he loves me. Or he loves me,but, anyway. As he so nicely put it yesterday in the closet. It’s a phrase he uses a lot, actually.

I love you,butcan you please stop singing.

I love you,butcan we take this dish out of the dinner rotation?

I love you,butI don’t think you look sexy in that cowgirl hat.

Fine, he didn’t actually say that last one. But he implied it by not immediately ravishing me when he saw me wearing it. Not that I wanted to have sex last night. I’m on my period, after all, and the first day of my period is not a sexy day for me. But still, is it too much to ask for my husband to want to have sex with me but also be okay with not actually having sex?

“We just booked our flight too late to get seats together,” I rush to explain before my thoughts get lost in the vortex that is the complexities of being a woman. “That’s all. We have a great marriage.”

“Oh, I see.” Dorothy gives me a relieved smile. “Sorry, my imagination sometimes runs away with me. I’m so glad to hear the two of you have such a rock solid marriage.” She pats me gently on the leg.

Three rows up there’s another laugh from the redhead.

I open my mouth to agree with Dorothy’s sentiment, but my mind has gone strangely blank.

“Are you alright, dear?” I’m vaguely aware of her peering at me in my periphery. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine. My marriage is fine,” I parrot dully, then the plane hits an unexpected bit of turbulence and it’s as if the jolt shakes free the stopper I’ve had in place for so long. The one that holds in all of the problems I never share with anyone else. “Sure myhusband works a lot, but who’s doesn't? Heck,Iwork a lot. Or at least I used to before, well, the incident. Now, I’m only part-time. Ish. Anyway, it’s not really a big deal. We have a great life. Beautiful home, two amazing children. Not that Max sees them very much on account of all the working.” I let out a strangled laugh, searching fruitlessly for the filter that’s gone missing. “Don’t get me wrong, “I hurry on, “Max is a good dad. When he’s around, anyway. He’s a good husband too. A good man. But you know, sometimes I’m not sure he thinks I’m a good wife.” My voice breaks unexpectedly, but I keep going on, some sort of catharsis settling over me as I unload all of this to a stranger. “I let him down when I broke down four years ago, and I’ve never quite been able to recover the way he used to look at me. It’s like he had me on a pedestal before and when I fell apart he finally realized his mistake. Now I’m just his fragile, unremarkable, rapidly aging wife.” I swipe at a tear then make a mad grab for the bottle of water I brought on the plane with me, gulping it down the way Brooke chugs her way through 100 ounces of water everyday.

“Oh my dear,” Dorothy whispers softly. Her gentle words break whatever spell I was under that had me confessing all of this. Immediately the stopper goes back into place. My tears dry and the raw feeling in my chest and throat vanishes. All that’s left is abject horror at having just completely overshared.

“I’m so sorry,” I rush out, running a nervous hand through my hair. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Please don't apologize,” Dorothy says firmly. She’s about to say more, but the captain’s voice comes on over the intercom at just that moment, telling us to prepare for descent. Return to our seats, buckle up, tray tables fastened–the usual montage of instructions.

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