Pat and I went out to see a mindless movie last night–the least favourite thing for me to do on a Friday evening, when all the theatres in town are crowded with restless, excited teenagers who want nothing more than a place to blow off some steam. She had complimentary tickets to the movie, and I bought the requisite popcorn and soda. She’s been dealing with an unhappy and frustrating relationship lately, so we both needed an couple of hours just laughing at foolish sight gags and rapid-fire dialogue. Owen Wilson was my personal bonus to the whole deal. Aside from twisting that whole blonde boy archetype into rubble with his broken nose, he strikes me as the kind of man who’s not a simple matinee idol. Anyone who’s made a career making films like Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, and The Royal Tannenbaums deserves a second look, even if the “comedies” he’s making now are stringently well suited only to the howling bands of teenagers lining the cinema rows this evening. There’s a sensitive and thinking black comic soul in that sunny Texan package: I’ll watch just about anything he’s in, provided this is as bad as it gets.
We hung out afterwards just talking about new developments, things that have been happening to us and for us since she and I last talked. She’d been away up North with her fiance after having a bit of an argument with him about the circumstances around the holiday…and I knew the trip wasn’t really going to be relaxing for her. I listened, and then kept bringing my mind back around to a patient I worked with this week who was stuck in the same obsession as I was. 43, frustrated with a husband who didn’t seem to want to prioritize financial needs for their future, and restless from being out of work and a little rudderless, she started to think about another man. It’s exactly what happened to me last year, when M seemed more than ready to work against my efforts to find some kind of financial stability.
As Gilda Radner used to say: “It’s always ’somethin’.”
I’m beginning to see the problems that come up with relationships as less the result of individual failure and more the result of poor design. How much easier would all of this be if we didn’t all feel like one special person must be the one to provide us with all our emotional needs? All our physical needs? And out of that concerted effort, all of our spiritual needs too? Why are we still, despite what we now know of its origins in ownership and trade, hooked on the idea of marriage, for life?
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