Fear Factor

We’re settled into the new house, and other than random hassles like a daily commute on car-choked roads and a breathtakingly complicated vehicle registration process, everything is going really well. We’ve both settled into routines at work, I’m reconnecting with old friends, he’s finding his own space in the big city metro area, and his kids like coming to visit us.

We’re going to the small town this weekend for the first time since we moved. There is a little family celebration that we don’t want to miss. It's our chance to prove that even though we’ve moved, we’ll still be there for the stuff that matters. As we’re making our plans, and despite how good everything feels since we’ve moved, I can’t help but feel a little apprehensive at the prospect of getting sucked back in.

My husband commented the other night that he has none of the staples of his social life in the small town – drinking with his buddies, playing music and poker until the wee hours, hanging out with his kids – but that he’s much happier here than he was there. I take what he says with a grain of salt, because I know what it’s like to put on a brave face after a big relocation. But when we were talking about this stuff last night, he emphasized that he didn’t come here to make me happy. He came here because it was the best way out of his old life.

Which got me wondering what it was about that life he wasn't brave enough to let go while we were still there. There was always a frantic bachelor quality to his routine -- especially when I was traveling -- that didn't go away after we got serious about each other, or after I moved in with him, or even after we got married. He tempered it, but he never wanted to say no when one of his buddies called. "Hey baby," he'd say, "Do you care if I (fill in the blank) with the guys tonight?" Most times, he'd invite me to come along, but it was clear on those evenings where his priorities were. Even with The Other Woman, he'd take her along on the boys' nights out -- some of them knew about the affair; to the rest, she was just "this girl from work" -- rather than miss any of the action.

When we decided to leave, I was surprised when he told me, "Except for my best friend from first grade and the kids, there's not a single person here I'll really miss when we move."

"Really?," I asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm so over this whole scene."

How ironic that in the end, he was guilty of the very thing -- the inability to make new friends in the small town -- that he complained most about in me. I guess it's a lot harder to reinvent yourself in a place where everybody knows you than it is in a place full of total strangers.


The Wife Who Knows