O P I N I O N
NOT THAT PROFOUND
By Nathan Graziano
Here is a basic truism that I’m guessing anyone who has ever been married to another human being already knows: Marriage is hard.
This goes far beyond our biological wiring or divvying up closet space. This has to do with working intimately with a chosen partner to share housing and living expenses, to raise children and/or pets while striking a balance between work and family while still trying to carve out time to pursue your own passions and a sense of independence.
Meanwhile, you also have to foster love and marriage long after the honeymoon ends.
This is a tall order for even the most adept multi-taskers among our species, so it really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that nearly half of the people who embark on this endeavor fail. In fact, many people these days seem loath to even try.
Something inevitably has to give, and oftentimes that something is the intimacy that first brought you together. While falling in love is fun and exhilarating, it is hard work to maintain closeness with the same person you’ve woken up beside for many decades without things becoming mundane.
I’m going to venture to guess that I’m not speaking solely for myself here.
To put this bluntly, my wife, Liz, and I became lazy when it came to feeding our relationship. Like many couples, we became complacent, putting all of those other things ahead of our marriage. The last time we went on a trip—with just the two of us—was in 2009 when we spent a long weekend on Block Island.
That was until we spent a night in Portland, Maine, last week, and as it turned out, one night is not enough.
We arrived at our hotel room downtown Old Port in the late-afternoon. We unpacked, put on some nice clothes and ventured out to a bar for some cocktails before dinner. While walking to the pub, we held hands. It seems like such a simple gesture, but I couldn’t remember the last time we walked somewhere holding each other’s hand.
It was a small act of intimacy that served to remind me why I fell in love with this woman long before we had kids, or mortgage payments, or schedules that worked us into the ground. At the bar, we watched the young couples, like staring into a funhouse mirror, retreating into our past.
After a few drinks, we tried to find an upscale place for dinner, but neither of us are great planners—preferring the spontaneous to the predictable—and we didn’t have the sense to call ahead for a reservation.
So we found ourselves at a greasy seafood place on the beach, sitting at an outside deck in lawn furniture. Liz ordered the fried scallops, and I had the fish and chips, and it was nothing short of scrumptious. Our server was a delightful young woman, a local, and the meal proved to be exactly what we were looking for.
We then headed out to a local bar to watch the Red Sox trounce the Yankees, and my wife was the center of attention in the room with numerous women approaching her and smothering her with compliments.
Whether or not this was a lesbian bar, we’re still not sure, but it certainly reminded me of something I’ve always known but often forget: I’ve outkicked my coverage in this marriage.
We tried to book our hotel room for a second night, but it was the weekend, and it had already been booked. We didn’t want to go back to our lives, the drudgeries of day-to-day banalities where we have the tendency to overlook each other.
As we were driving home, zipping down I-95, Liz turned to me. “I really wish we could’ve stayed another day,” she said. “One night is not enough.”
“We’ll have to come back, and not in another 16 years,” I said.
“Do you want to stay for a long weekend in the fall?”
“I do,” I said.
Amen.
Reach Nathan Graziano at ngrazio5@yahoo.com