Dreamy and glam as it sounds to be savoring this swank beach paradise with the one I love—and without kiddies—it’s not the honeymoon that it seems. There is no time off for my other half (mostly by his own design, but occasionally by someone else’s) and so every potential relaxing or romantic moment is interrupted by what he deems an extremely urgent phone call or the gentle vibration of his beloved crackberry or some earth-shattering document that absolutely must be signed that very minute and faxed/overnighted back or a form that must be input on the system as soon as humanly possible under threat of torture by running out of Bombay Sapphire.
And when he’s not toiling on all this do-or-die work, he’s distracted by everything else under the sun. Why didn’t the delivery service call to confirm they picked up the couches? Why didn’t the lady at Restoration Hardware Outlet tell us about the coupon booklet we could’ve used? Why did his iPhone screen crack when he dropped it? Where can he buy a fax machine—RIGHT NOW?
Chill out, Mr. ADD!
The other night as we stumbled onto a magnificent shoreline sunset, he wandered way off beyond my sightline to interview the quahoggers scooping up their catch, leaving me to watch the fiery ball sink and spread its majestic glory below the horizon all by my lonesome.
As the buffoonish Greg Behrendt would likely say, I guess he’s just Not. That. Into Me.
While it’s possible there’s a glimmer of truth to that, I have an alternate theory. I think it’s the rare male specimen who has the focus to unplug and recognize a potential special shared moment, especially after being married to the same bitchtastic goddess for 16 years. Generally, I think women are more keenly wired to see the nuances of life and relationships—or at least more keenly wired than long-married American men. From my decidedly female perspective, the month we have without the kids is fleeting and we need to savor as many memorable moments as we can. Who knows what the future brings, and I try to live with no regrets. From his perspective, the 20-year client who worships the ground he walks on is going to pull his account by sundown if he doesn’t respond instantly to every ridiculous inquiry and request, whereas the old ball and chain will be there in her hot-pink Hanky-Pankies come day’s end, because, really, where else is she gonna go? He truly believes that if he’s accessible to clients and associates for anything less than 24/7, he’ll be washed up by noon. And so I sit and wait. And wait. Sometimes I even text him from across the table or the next chair at the beach just to get his attention. Dear that he is, he usually texts me back.
So much for the blissful month at the beach everyone is delusionally imagining.
The rest of the time, while we’re not enjoying this honeymoon of the wired age, we’re managing the cavalcade of Cablevision minions who get dispatched to the abode at least semi-weekly to solve the absurd recurring issues we’ve encountered. (The phone isn’t supposed to hang up mid-call every time someone goes on the internet, is it?) Every time one of these glorified tech monkeys leaves, he swearrrrrrs he’s been the genius to fix the problem. And every time so far, we’ve had to sit home for another four-hour stretch and await a brandy-new moron, who inevitably shakes his head with dismay at the last guy’s work, and devises a whole new strategy for wiring the modem and testing the signal strength. This morning’s simian tech has just departed after a three-hour job, which I nearly had to force him to do at gunpoint, as he initially proposed leaving to get two other nearby jobs done and then returning to spend time on mine. I’m hoping I didn’t get the cable equivalent of the chef spitting into the food I’ve sent back to the kitchen.
Am I complaining? Nah. Someday my prince will come back. Thankfully, my live-in fan club returns in four days. Here’s lookin’ at August!