The Troubles: Part One, The Troubles Begin (a humor-free post)

One week ago, on our 23rd anniversary, Gary and I were both looking up at the ceiling, and apropos of nothing, he held my hand and said, “I’m sorry I spent so much time at work when we were first married and having … troubles.”

The Troubles began in 1989. We had been married for four years, the year most troubles begin. The week we got married, Gary got a new job on first shift working as a data operator. It was his first job where he really had a chance to grow, and just a few years later he was manager of the data center.

The issue was that he was no longer on first shift. He was on first, second, and third, and if there’d been a fourth shift, he would have worked that too.

This is the phone call we would have every night:
I would ask, hurt, “Gary? Are you coming home for dinner? It’s seven-thirty.”
Gary would gush, excited, “Oh, no, I’ve got this [insert technical jargon here that I did not understand] project. It’s really cool!”
“Cool.” (sniff) “I guess it must be.”
“Yeah, I get to try [more technical incomprehensible yammering] and it’s [and more] so I [more tech words that meant he didn’t love me or want me] …and it’s so cool!”
“Well. Fine.”
“Yeah! And I -“
“Fine. I guess I won’t see you tonight then.”
“Nope!”
“Fine.”
“Okay!”

Then I’d slam down the phone, which strangely sounds just the same on the other end as when you pleasantly hang up the phone.

If I did get a chance to see him, say on the weekend before he went in to work, I took that time to make sure he knew how angry and unhappy I was. I didn’t have time to do anything but complain, I had only a small window for communication and there was a problem that needed solving.

This is the phone conversation after a year of that:
“So, Gary, I don’t suppose you are actually coming home tonight.”
“Oh, don’t start. Why can’t you be more supportive? This will let up soon, it’s just a bad week”
“I’ve heard that before. I would support you if you worked, even, just ten hours a day.”
“Just, just, don’t bug me. I have enough pressure here at work.”
“You know, if we broke up the only difference would be I’d probably have sex more often.”

I wasn’t fighting so much with him on the weekends, unless you count that one time I walked over and smacked the glasses off his face. I’m not proud of that. I could not stand the sight of him. Whereas Gary’s point of view was that I was crazy. He had traded his programming job for another job that would be better pay, less work, and less programming. I don’t think he asked me for my opinion. He still stayed late, if not later. We weren’t talking. Until one night, I broke the silence to tell him how unhappy I was, and he responded that maybe … we should get a divorce.

(Not much of a cliffhanger, is it? I mean, you know everything works out. Still, I can’t put you through another long post like this.)