Marriage Rash
Audio version now available.
I was chatting up a couple of fourth-grade girls at the back of the church on Sunday. I know that sounds creepy, but honestly, they are way more interesting than most adults. They always have something on their minds, and they have only budding little undeveloped conversation filters that they aren’t jaded enough yet to use even if they worked. For someone who thrives on authenticity of any kind, these are my people.
On this particular Sunday, the topic of heated debate was wedding rings. One of the girls grabbed and twisted the left hand of her mother–who was unfazed and feigning captivation with a conversation with another adult about the unpleasantness of the heat in July or how many weeks until school starts or some other trivial adult go-to interaction-discomfort easer.
“Now that’s a wedding ring,” she exclaimed defiantly pointing to her mother’s finger. “My wife is allergic to her wedding ring,” I piped in at the risk of being ignored or dismissed by the filterless fourth graders. The risk paid off. No dismissal, just looks of intrigue. “What do you mean?” the wrist twister asked. “I don’t know, really,” I replied. “We hit twenty-five years of marriage, and Ms. Sheri’s ring finger developed an itchy rash. What do you think that means?”
“I don’t think she’s allergic to her wedding ring. I think she’s allergic to you!”
There it was. That’s the feedback I was looking for when I engaged in conversation with kids who have no linguistic impediments holding back the first thing that pops into their brains. Honestly, I was relieved by the validation of my nagging worry. I believe in divine intervention or karma or kismet or whatever your belief system has you call it. When Sheri developed a rash from too many years of wearing the proof that she’s married to me, I wondered if the rash was just a physical manifestation of a relationship that had run its course.
Sheri cried about it. The allergic reaction, that is. I think she only cries about being legally, financially, and familially strapped to me when I am not around. She’s not a monster.
And what an appropriate psycho-biological connection. After all, so many of my actions and behaviors over the years would be accurately described as irritating. A recurring cramp on her calf or arthritis in her elbow just wouldn’t have the same direct correlatablilty as a rash caused by the symbol of her commitment to stick around and continue to subject herself to me.
What a perfect addition to the compilation of insecurities that nest inside my cranium. Like a jazz combo that finally finds its baritone sax, this relationship insecurity really grooves alongside my financial insecurities, the extra ten pounds I carry around, my imposter syndrome, and my over-achieving forehead. I’ve gotten so much better at staying focussed on the present that sometimes I let go of both ruminations on the past and also fret about the future. It’s great to have Sheri’s rashy finger to remind in times of peace and contentment that, no…actually, I’ve got plenty to worry about.
I got a really good chuckle out of the fourth-grade epiphany about my wife’s Matt allergy. This summer we celebrate our survival of twenty-eight years together, so it isn’t like the finger rash is still a sensitive subject. Emotionally sensitive, that is. And yet, I am not sure if it was the conversation with my diminutive confidants, or if it’s just a natural byproduct of some scheduled relaxation time, but Sunday afternoon, I could feel my insecurities buzzing like the low hum of the refrigerator compressor.
Nothing was wrong. Not really. And yet, I felt like I was waiting for something bad to happen. Speaking of refrigerators, home ownership really adds to the potential for perpetual dread. I replaced a dimmer switch last week. Sunday, I noticed that we had another one that had lost its glory. When a dimmer switch stops dimming, it doesn’t stop functioning altogether, it just turns into a two-binary-positions on/off switch. But the dysfunction carries with it an added little bonus. When the switch is in the middle positions–the places where it is supposed to be dimming–it makes a sound like a fly hitting a bug zapper. An electrical zizzy sound is just what an insecure homeowner with OCD (especially around fire, water, and electricity) needs to help him sleep well. Electrical zizzy sounds pair well with cloth wiring in our 1915 bungalow, don’t you agree? I would like to punch the inventor of the dimmer switch in the throat. Want mood lighting? Light a fucking candle.
The low hum of dread. Sometimes it does not even need to be tied to a particular area of concern. Sometimes it is generic and unidentifiable, so intangible that no amount of conscious consideration can bring relief. But distraction can bring relief, or at least distraction can fill the void that makes the low hum otherwise audible.
Distraction can come from so many sources. Hard work, productivity, moving the proverbial ball forward–it is hard to worry when I am doing something that is undeniably positive. Zoning out with TV or social media or a movie. Sleeping. Having sex. Unloading the dishwasher. Going for a run. Helping my son fix his bike. Replacing a dimmer switch. All effective distractions.
Having a few beers is distraction, too. For me, drinking is a maladaptive coping mechanism. Although that phrase is a mouthful, it is the perfect description because no matter how deep I sank into the alcoholic waters, alcohol never stopped helping me cope. It just started to create lots of other trauma and turmoil with which I had to find a way to cope (thus the maladaptive part). Alcohol is off the table for me. Permanently. And I am relieved, thankful, committed, and quite certain in the necessity of my sobriety. But in my moments of weakness, when the low hum is ringing in my ears, I recall with just a tinge of envy my toxic relationship with alcohol that is no more.
I bet heroin would quiet the buzz. But I don’t have the slightest notion of how I would even start to obtain or use heroin. The Timothee Chalamet character in the 2018 movie, Beautiful Boy, sure makes shooting up look unappealing as he slumps down in a diner bathroom stall rubbing his face along a public toilet. This OCD safety ranger also has enough OCD germophobia to cross heroin off my list of potential insecurity distractions.
No alcohol. No heroin. Unloading the dishwasher doesn’t take long enough to provide lasting relief. The cacophony is faint, but I can still hear it. You can feel the baritone sax of a jazz combo from blocks away.
I guess what I’m learning is that the only thing that effectively quiets my insecurities is talking about them. I don’t have any fourth graders around, so thank you for the conversation.
This essay is from the “Underlying Issues Series.” If you are ready to leave your maladaptive coping mechanism behind and continue this conversation, please consider joining us in SHOUT Sobriety.