Diary: Hypothetical Husbands

It’s a good thing to keep a diary.

That’s what Judy Blume and several other authors on Master Class say. In their class trailers, I mean. I haven’t signed up for the thing, but it looks pretty cool.

So I’m keeping a diary. Not the kind with a pink cover that only works if the pen used on it has a fluffy top. Typing is so much more convenient, as I like to read and re-write everything at least eight times. Sometimes nine for good luck…or something.

Judy Blume says this is normal.

Last night I lay awake in bed, engrossed in my thoughts. They weren’t really that relevant, but I’d had a nap in the afternoon and I was paying for it in the dark, with Forest curled up in his mattress on the floor to my right, and Graeme to my left, sniffling and breathing through his mouth cause it’s December.

It’s a good thing to keep a diary.

It’s harder to forget things once I’ve written them, and I want to remember these days. The kids are still little. The shower door swung open and Forest let himself in. “I’m thankful I have a nice mom,” he said, while I wondered if he’ll remember my bellybutton when he’s 30. “It wouldn’t be much fun to be at an orphanage.”

Gracie, that Spicy Meatball, was still napping, so Forest and I had time to wash our hair, put some clean pjs on (cause of December), and work on a craft together.

These are good days, and it’s a good life. I’m very pleased with my circumstances. I do get a little sad sometimes, however, when the mirror reminds me I’m not immune to Time. I look at the corners of my eyes and see what I started noticing on Graeme’s face six years ago. Someone I know got an acid wash treatment on her face and now the wrinkles are all gone. So for the last few days I’ve been sighing wistfully at the thought of dipping my face in a bucket of acid.

These weren’t the thoughts keeping me awake, though. What I was wondering last night was, firstly, which of the cats was under the house fornicating, and secondly, I mused about what my life might have been like if I had stayed in Mexico.

What would have become of me if Graeme had turned down the invitation to speak at a men’s conference that never existed?

I might have married a wealthy man. The handsome, belligerent kind of man who owns a lake house and hires private masseuses to come squeeze his butt on weekends. Sometimes he squeezes back. The kind of man whose golf course house is so huge and perfect it could be in a magazine. His wife, neglected and bored, spends her days getting her nails and hair done, while the kids, who recognize her face but hardly know her, grow fonder of the nanny. Her belly is flat and hard after a tummy tuck, and a hug from her is painful for two solid reasons.

I met many families like this in the city. Some of them were so wealthy they even had bodyguards. The wives were impressive, well-manicured shells with no apparent intellect, while the husbands, red and smelling like booze and cigarettes, cursed like sailors and flirted with their friends’ wives.

But their houses were big and their cars expensive.

I could have also married a poor man with a good sense of humor. This might have worked out decently, unless it was one of those misguided souls who thinks it’s a sensible plan to marry a girl and move in together, without the bother of moving out of his mother’s house first. I might have put up with that for some time, and there would have been a few benefits: The mother would cook, empty out our trash can every day and mop the floor once a week.

Sharing a wall with her would have finally forced us to move the mattress on to the floor, which she would regard with raised eyebrows as she took out our trash the following morning. She would criticize my habits and appearance and the funny husband, with his horrendous level of attachment and devotion to the life giver, would grow duller every hour and my life would continually get worser and worser.

I’d resort to spending more time at my own mother’s house, and when we reluctantly hugged goodbye, she would slip a little money into my pocket, out of love but mostly pity.

I might have married an old man instead. A poet who had impressed and won me over with his prose, but even poorer than the last poor soul. My mom would have cried, but then conceded that even this scenario was better than becoming an old maid. But only barely.

We would live in a moldy, rented apartment. Somewhere beautiful, but too damp and too cold. His artistic existence would have forced me to find a job in order to buy food, and the love would quickly run dry as I realized groceries are more important than poems.

But I would take comfort in the hope that he would soon be with Jesus and I might find myself a wealthy widower shortly after the burial. The kind that owns a lake house and hires private masseuses.

But then again…I could very well have ended up an old maid. Bored and lonely, with only books for friends because I’d take despair and solitude over a cat any day.