Bed, back and beyond
I LOVE HER ferociously, but after 24 years of marriage we can argue over almost any little thing, and then not resolve it. Like where the bed should go, against the wall, under the window, in the street.
“Not the wall,” she says.
“What’s wrong with the wall?”
“I’m claustrophobic,” she says. “Um, didn’t you maybe know that by now?”
Um, no. I didn’t know that by now. You’d think that something like that would surface in a quarter century. I mean, I knew there were some intimacy issues. But this?
“Claustrophobic?” I ask.
“Don’t you remember how I hated,” she says, “when you pinned me under the sheets?”
“That was a long time ago,” I say.
“The bed’s not going against the wall,” she says.
It’s been a long, nasty summer, and you can see it in her every little gesture, her every little glare. It’s pretty much a post-traumatic stress situation, except this case involves me and her four high-maintenance kids. Menopause maybe. But I’m not even going there.
In fact, the kids have taken to calling her “the First Lady,” as in “when will the First Lady be home,” or “I don’t think the First Lady likes children, do you?” They don’t call her “First Lady” to her face or anything. But it’s just a matter of time, and I lick my lips with anticipation.
In the meantime, we have this thing with the bed to resolve, and the usual other late-summer side shows. For instance, the lovely and patient older daughter is rattling around the kitchen like a sick bear, complaining of a headache.
“Don’t we have any vitamin B?” she growls, as if it’s an accusation.
“What’s vitamin B do?” I ask.
“Cures a hangover,” her mother explains.
Now they tell me? I was once an expert on hangovers. For more than 100 years, my family has done extensive research on hangovers. I used to think it was the alcohol that did it. Turns out it was only a basic vitamin deficiency. Poor Grandpa.
“I only had one drink,” the older daughter groans.
Of course, sweetie. And you’re entitled. You’re 23 now, working hard and living on your own -- though you have moved everything out of the house except, apparently, yourself. No exaggeration. Our older daughter seems to prefer our house to her new apartment in Studio City or Sherman Oaks (who can tell the difference?). The point is, it’s been two months and she has yet to actually leave. Must miss her old man.
“So when’s she really moving out?” I ask her mother.
“She already moved out,” her mother says.
“But she’s always here,” I say.
“Free food,” her mom explains, “and she misses her baby brother.”
That I understand. He’s adorable. In these selfish times, the toddler is the sort of benevolent creature you’d hope an extraterrestrial would turn out to be. Kind. Giving. In the moment. Like a short, sober Robin Williams.
So it’s easy to see why the older daughter would be so smitten by him, except that last week, he got kicked out of the zoo for making too much noise. The beach was another problem. People kept moving away from us, giving us some distance.
“Keep it down, would ya?” I begged him.
“HUH?” he screamed.
“You’re bothering people,” I told him, and off he went chasing a hot-dog wrapper across the sand, screaming at the sun.
He’s got his mother’s lungs, that’s for sure. And her charm. When I leave for work each day, he hugs me and whispers: “Sweet dreams.”
I just hope he’s not going to have his mother’s little personal issues, like bedroom claustrophobia. I feel so bad about not recognizing this, I offer to give her a back rub. A really great, note-it-in-your-diary back rub.
“Here?” I ask, working a fist into her back.
“Lower,” she says.
“Here?” I say, dropping my voice almost a full octave.
That’s a better joke in person, but you get the idea. I’m always funnier once I get my hands on her.
Besides that, I’m the Dick Butkus of back rubs, all elbows and knees, hurling myself into my work with reckless zeal, no matter the score. I once pulled a hamstring giving my wife a back rub. And there was talk of a mild concussion.
For you beginners, that’s a good thing to take note of. A good back rub can smooth over a lot of rough spots in a relationship. It’s one of the little secrets to a long and happy marriage. If that’s what you’re after.
You decide.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com or at myspace.com/chriserskine.
