My husband doesn’t know it yet, but by the end of this three-day weekend, he will divorce me. We’ve been married 25-1/2 years. But they will be down the tubes in just a few days.
It’s sad. And it all came about perfectly innocently. Really.
It was a lovely morning, and today as I drove in to work, I was singing along with the radio when the song came on. Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles).
It just happened; I couldn’t control myself. It tried, but really, I couldn’t help myself. I sang with abandon. With joy. With knowledge aforethought.
Now, I need to tell you that my soon to be ex-husband is handicapped. We have managed to make a good life together despite this, umm, problem. But it can’t continue.
You see, my husband hears everything. He cannot tune anything out. Not music, not voices, not machinery. I’ve never known anyone else with this particular disability. Whenever a neighbor starts a leaf or snow blower, a power tool, anything, he hears it and is frustrated. When a song he dislikes comes on the radio, when a commercial jingle plays, he hits the mute button faster than a Jeopardy contestant gets the buzzer. John will scream and dive across the room to turn that damn thing off.
Poor John. He’s never found my mute button.
And that, of course is the problem.
You see, I sing. Now, and for the last 25-1/2 years, I have looked over my shoulder before belting out a tune. I try to be considerate. And usually that works out OK for both of us.
Now, you should know that I can sing. Really! Years of chorus and choir, voice lessons, starring roles in musical comedies written by unknowns who, tragically, went on to other careers. I am even a critically acclaimed singer, with the reviews to prove it. Bronzed. One reviewer went so far as to say that I was stylish, although I am pretty sure that he was trying to get into my pants when he wrote the review. Of course, the evidence is circumstantial, based only on the reviewer’s verbal comments to me. Still, I’m sure his judgment wasn’t impaired. Extra blood is known to increase musical appreciation in men. Do I need to produce the medical studies?
Now I have a handicap, too. Unlike my husband, I can tune out anything. Including my own singing. While I’m doing it. I often just don’t notice I’m doing it.
John can deal with my singing sometimes; sometimes I just keep quiet. It’s worked.
Except for one song. Desperado, as sung by Linda Ronstadt (not the lesser version done by the Eagles). You see, it gets stuck in my head. And not even the whole song. Just one verse:
Why don’t you come to your senses,
you been out ridin’ fences for so long, now.
Oh, you’re a hard one
But I know that you’ve got your reasons
These things that are pleasing you
Will hurt you some how
That’s all I can ever remember. And that, of course, is the problem.
“Lease, you’re doing it again. Those same lines — from the middle of the song.”
“Yeah, but they’re the best lines,” I respond. (John is never amused by that line, no matter how many times I’ve used it. Or how cute I look while saying it. Silence and pursed lips follow. )
This morning, when the song came on the radio, I forgot. I forgot that I cannot ever listen to that song again. I forgot that hearing it, even once, will result in divorce. I forgot that it might lead to a serious change in my life.
I didn’t change the channel. I didn’t turn off the radio. I did not drive into a tree or a ditch or another car simply to keep myself from hearing my beloved song – the one that my husband hates above all others.
Nope, I belted it out with abandon.
And it’s still there in my head. It wants to come out. In fact, it will come out. Sigh. And I know that my marriage simply cannot stand even one rendition. Sigh. Oh well. What’s 25-1/2 years anyway.
So it is a damn good thing that Janice at AuroraMorealist gave me the Mrs. Sparkly Award. Because I’m going to need to supplement my income with some singing.
Thanks Janice! For anyone who is unfamiliar with Janice’s blog, check it out. She has heart and talent and gives love with every post.