I’m unloading the dishwasher when my husband comes up behind me. “You’re making chaos out of my stemless glassware,” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
He rearranges the glasses I’ve just put on the shelf. There are only six of them, so it doesn’t take long. When he’s finished, there are two of each kind nestled together like animals on Noah’s Ark.
When we both reach into the dishwasher for the clean plates, I step back. “I’ll leave you to it,” I say, and go out on the balcony to not scream in frustration, reminding myself that this is Dan’s condo. He has a right to be anal about the glasses. I don’t live here.
Well, technically, it is our condo, and I do live here. Once in a while.
Otherwise, I’m at our home in Massachusetts, where we experience different versions of this same power struggle whenever Dan comes back. Last time, he grumbled, “Why did you move the spatulas?” and put them back to the left of the stove, where they’d been living before he took a job in California six months ago and I moved them to the right side.
“Because I’m right-handed and so are you. It’s more convenient this way, so you don’t have to reach across a hot stove to get one.” I moved the spatulas back.
“It clutters the counter if you put them on the right,” he said. “That’s my food prep area!” He moved them back to the left.
What are we, five years old?
No. We are sensible people in our third decade of marriage. We are also parents to five adult children who are all, bless them, living independently. That’s why, when Dan was excited about this job offer on the west coast, I blithely said, “Go ahead and take it. We’ll figure it out.”
The logistics were the easy part. He moved to a condo two miles from his job in Huntington Beach, CA, and I stayed in our house. “Why doesn’t your wife come with you, if the children are grown?” Dan’s colleagues ask now and then, mystified.
On the surface, the answer is easy: My whole life is in Massachusetts. Most of our children live on the east coast, plus we have two dogs and a garden. My friends are here, and so are nearly all of my ghostwriting clients.
“Doesn’t she at least love the California weather?” Dan’s colleagues want to know.
Dan certainly does. He has always been a fan of sunshine and palm trees.
Me, I love a good snowstorm. Or a thunderstorm. Or autumn leaves. I even love hot, sticky summer weather. Mostly what I love is all of the green spaces around me. In Huntington Beach, I drive down the street and see this: shopping plaza, shopping plaza, condo complex! Shopping plaza, condo complex, highway! The poppies and cactus flowers are certainly beautiful in spring, and now that it’s summer, the roses and jacaranda trees are doing their thing. There’s a long, long beach, which is why surfers like it. But there are oil pumps even in the wetlands and the whole place smacks of commercial excess. Orange County highlights everything humans have done wrong in the last half-century.
But I digress. The real point of this piece is to describe what it’s like to live apart after nearly 30 years of marriage. Let me start by saying Dan is my heart, my everything. The only reason I’m married at all is because I’m with this particular man.
Now, however, as we navigate living apart, I find myself remembering what it was like to be young. At 30, I still maintained that I would never marry or have children, because I wanted to be free. I was headstrong and ambitious and curious. I wanted to keep an overnight bag packed in case the urge hit for me to travel to Java or Spain or Nova Scotia.
I’m experiencing that kind of freedom again. The kids are out of the house. My mother, who I took care of in her last years, died recently. After Dan left, the house felt too big, but gradually I’ve expanded my reach. One of the upstairs bedrooms is now my office. I sleep in another. Bill paying and gift wrapping are relegated to the dining room. At night, I lounge in front of the TV with the dogs, each of us occupying a separate recliner.
Some days I talk to nobody but neighbors. Other days are filled with phone calls or friends who come over for dinner or even spend the night. I miss Dan when I’m not busy, but I’m busy most of the time.
So now I find myself asking if this is still a marriage. We talk every night, sharing our days across the miles. When we visit, though, there is always this new power shuffle: Oh, right, you like to sleep on that side of the bed. And do you really have to clutter up the entire bathroom counter?
Dan, like me, is feeling the push-pull of this divided married life. He loves living in a condo he can clean in an hour instead of an old New England house where there’s always another thing that needs fixing. He can binge on Sci-Fi shows to his heart’s content and hit golf balls every day after work. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll lose him to that life of bachelor ease, to that California promise of constant sunshine and a store on every corner.
Meanwhile, we’re exploring who we are without each other. “It’s good preparation for widowhood,” I told him the other day, because that’s on my mind these days, too: either of us could drop dead tomorrow, so it’s good for me to know how to change the batteries in the remote, fix the thermostat, and clean the filter on the septic tank.
What’s the point, really, of a long-term marriage? Obviously, if you want to have children, marriage can provide stability. It’s easier to raise kids with two parents, especially if both of them are bringing in money. For the partners, too, there is presumed stability. You know who you’re sleeping with at night, for better or worse. You have somebody to take care of you if you’re sick. You’re never lonely. But what about later, after the kids are gone?
Dan and I talk excitedly about our upcoming hiking trip in Spain and visiting our daughter in Israel. We also rely on one another. If I had cancer or a heart attack or fell down the stairs, I have no doubt that he’d care for me, just as I’d care for him. We are an uncoupled couple, figuring things out one day, even one hour, at a time. And maybe that’s what marriage is, in its simplest form: a commitment to keep saying yes to each other even while living apart.
13 Comments
Yes. You are friends . This will be a learning experience for both of you. Your trip to Spain and Israel will be be a wonderful adventure, and learning to live apart is, as you observed, good practice for when one of you dies and the other is truly alone for the first time in a l-o-n-g time. Hang in there, girl!
Thank you so much, Carol!
You have always met every challenge in your life, and I have no doubt you two will figure this separation out. Your trip to Spain & Israel will be a wonderful rebonding experience and remind you each why you fell in love in the first place during a complicated time in your lives. Miss you, my friend!❤️. Sonja
I miss you, too! Let’s see each other SOON!
My husband & I lived apart as well for several years—he in Egypt & Eritrea and Mr in Blue Hill, ME & at college in Plainfield, VT.
Yes, there was a period of adjustment each time we got together, but he was my best friend. We got to a point that it was okay to have different experiences because when we described them to each other they enriched both our lives. We appreciate each other so much more.
Yes too, it is practice for widowhood—will be 9 years next Monday, and he’s still a part of my daily life through pictures, habits, serenity, & memories. When he was diagnosed with ALS 4 years earlier, I knew I would survive, had in fact experienced independent living.
Oh, Patricia, it means so much to me that you took the time to share your experiences here. My condolences on going through ALS and losing your husband. I’m so happy to hear that you were able to grow together as well as apart during what sounds like a very special marriage. You must be very strong!
Fab piece, Holly! So good. xo
That means so much, coming from you!
Oh, please write more on this topic. It needs to be fully truthful and free of jargon. Couples who come up against life after the waning of distractions: children, parents, the stylish vacations, the non-essential “friends,” and the jolt of realizing husbands and wives are now very different people from their courtship days.
Thank you, Virginie. I feel like I’ve just started to explore the topic, so I’m sure I’ll be writing more!
Very good article and spot on! Terry & I still live in the same house, but have a similar relationship. As you say, he is my heart. I love him to pieces. But. We also tend to drive each other crazy at times because we are such different personality types and, like you, we each have our quirks. One thing we have in common is the fact we are basically lone wolves. Learning to live together has taken a lot of work. We accept that we need alone time. There are days we don’t say a word to one another. Not because there is a problem, but because we don’t feel a need to talk. And from time to time one of us will take a few days and take off alone on a mini (Or not so mini) road trip. We’re comfortable with this arrangement after 28 years. If anyone else thinks it’s odd, that’s their problem, not ours!
Wow, Maryanne, sounds like you’ve found the perfect partner! “Lone wolf” is a great way to describe me–Dan, not so much, so we’ve both had to learn to compromise our together time. Marriage is, if nothing else, a fascinating journey of exploration! Thanks for taking the time to read this.
Wow. So raw. So honest. So real. I love this post. As a transplanted New Englander to Southern CA, I have to agree with your view of Orange County. What do they say? Something about “the thorns with the roses?” Being able to allow your partner to be themselves, and in this case, re-discover themselves is such a gift to each other. I prefer to think of marriage as sharing your life, not complimenting or completing it as many would say. I can see you and your husband have shared many wonderful life experiences and have allowed each other to be themselves. Enjoy this time alone… and together as you both refine who you are in your 3rd decade of a wonderful life. Blessings to you both. ~ M