As a red-blooded American who has been watching professional women’s tennis for over forty years, how can I not be obsessed with tennis skirts? I wanted my wife to play. She tried. Took lessons with her best friend. “For the cool outfits,” they joked. It lasted two weeks. Only one other time did I get my wife on the tennis court, this time with both of our children at the country club just down the hill from our house. We’d made it. Two lovely kids. Nice house. Except our relationship was empty.
She’d been exiting the program for several years. She started having lunches with a younger colleague. I understand she needed someone to confide in. Why not her best friend, the woman? She took him to our special library, with the free coffee and smell of printed books. She took him to our place. She was in the process of jumping ship, but I caught the betrayal before it got wings. She apologized for the indiscretion. “It hurt your feelings, I won’t do it again.”
In therapy it was still me and my malfunctions. Me and my depression. Nothing about her unrest, her depression, her lack of any fucking emotional attachment to me. A body lying beside me that I could not touch. She was dying. I suppose I should give her a break. Her inner demons had convinced her it was a matter of life and death. She had to get out.
So she did. She went and consulted an attorney about divorce, failing to mention this fact in marriage counseling.
That’s how she rolled. As they say, more happy with an Excel spreadsheet for a map. And me with my box of watercolors and Pilot pens trying to write her love poems, pull her back in, love songs even. She was no longer hearing my outpouring. She couldn’t. She had to kill the feeling so she could accept the betrayal she was putting together. The kids, the house, and the money. That was her plan. The state of Texas obliged. I was a fractional dad with an immediate cash flow problem.
My daughter and I were always close. The divorce hurt us emotionally. We never got enough time together. Every other weekend, and one additional night! What they call the Standard Possession Order (SPO) was a travesity of family justice. Dad’s get less than 1/3 of their kids time in 80% of the divorces in the state of Texas. It isn’t because most of the dads were deadbeats. It’s because it was easier for the state to award custody and child support to pay for their staff. The state reimburses the Attorney General’s Office based on the money brought in from child support and child support enforcement.
That’s what my ex-wife did, early on. She filed for “enforcement.” It wasn’t like I was failing to pay. My company had lost a major client. I was a week behind.
“I’m sorry about the timing,” she demurred, “But I’ve submitted the paperwork to the AG’s office. It will make things easier for both of us.”
Somehow, that rationale became her comfort and shield for the way she treated me over the next eleven years, until our youngest was over 18 and finished with high school. That last tidbit got her an extra six months of child support. I suppose, much like the divorce, she couldn’t allow herself to feel what she was doing. When she threw me to the collections agency of the state.
After my daughter moved out of her house to attend college in a distant Texas town, we were able to speak freely and express our own frustration. I was visiting one weekend with my girlfriend. My daughter was wearing a black Lululemon tennis skirt when we arrived.
“What’s the deal? Why are you wearing a tennis skirt?”
“Oh, it’s just mom’s. She has tons of them.”
My ex-wife apparently liked walking in fashionable tennis skirts. The ones I so wanted her to wear with me. Now, without me, she was a big fan of the cool outfits.
My daugther and I still play tennis a few times a month. While she was away at college, we established a new more collaborative relationship. “I want to learn how to really play tennis,” she said.
I couldn’t be happier about that result and the closeness I still share with my daughter. My son is a different nut, but he’s starting to soften as well. He’s back on the gun obsession, but he’s completed college, swears he’s submitting job applications, and fiddles with his weapons. I can understand the fascination. I no longer share it.
He spent an entire day fondling and polishing an armoury worth of weapons. He was selling them for a friend he met in rehab. The rehab he walked out of. He was intoxicated with his temporary haul. Bullets by the crate. Rifles and pistols in cases. And the time to fondle them.
“I am so happy you are enthusiastic about something again.”
“I’m in heaven,” he said.
“It’s not my thing, but I support you and see you in your bliss. Well done.”
We talk a little about jobs and work, and how he needs to get a job so he can afford a more reliable car. Tiny steps.
I’ve gotten messages from both of them today. A day well spent.
Now time to rest, my shift was tough. I’ve got one day off.
