an affair? definitely an affair.
or maybe just maybe a serious illness, an inoperable terminal illness?
oh, i know, i know.. we’re stone cold broke, yeah, that’s it, he spent all our money on house tschotkes.
my birthday is almost over.
well, today is almost over, my birthday is gonna continue for weeks & weeks & weeks.
weeks & weeks & weeks.
except there is no fasting involved.
which brings me to…
ken has been extraordinarily generous this birthday day. by generous i mean kind. kind as in: whatever you want, need, ask for, just tell me what you want and i’m gonna do it, get it, be it for you.
anything you want.
whatdya want, he asks.
hmmm, i think, thought.
this doing anything i want, ask for, need, crave… this doesn’t sit well, bode well with me.
but i also think: wow. cool. fabulous. love this.
bring it on.
but then i think: really… anything. why? why?
something must be wrong.
something must be fucking wrong.
maybe, i think, maybe – yeah that’s it – he’s having an affair.
i ask him point blank while i’m holding a fork: hey, so, what’s her name.
he heaps on the love.
flowers, cards, champagne. little purple LED lights on trees & home made wreaths, and even does some much needed kitchen plumbing (PLUMPING?), drives me back & forth to nyc FOR… SUSHI.
maybe, i think, maybe, she’s japanese, korean, chinese…asian.
maybe she’s just perfectly skinny like wooden chop sticks.
plus… a 90 minute massage at home.
enough with the kindness & goodness & generosity & massages & champagne & fucking LED lighting. enough with the cards, and fucking sushi.
this is it, i think, this is when ken sits me down and tells me that A) he’s having an affair with some, some … some perfectly skinny asian slash italian slash french woman who barely speaks english but laughs at all his jokes and loves his nose hairs B) he’s dying, that he has inoperable brain prostrate lung cancer and has only a few weeks, days to live, or C) that he has spent every single penny we have saved on windows and doors and toilets and paper fucking towels for the new house addition.
i tell nancy, confide in nancy, as she massages me, that i think maybe ken is having an affair, because, you know, he’s being so kind, loving, generous, thoughtful, good hearted, and overwhelmingly sweet.
she says maybe he is, maybe the other family is living in your basement, you know, since you never go down there anyway, maybe they’re living down there, you know…the basement family.
holy shit, i say, that’s possible. like a weird reality show. a whole life below me. living, eating, laughing. oh my god, i never go down there. yes, yes, of course, there could be a whole family living down there. i mean, yes, i do go down there, but usually with one eye closed as i bolt straight for the garage. (for those who have read my book, you know all about my basement, for those who know nothing about my basement, please, dear god, please buy my book.)
and of course, now i’m more tense, much tighter, my entire body is in defense mode. the basement family, yes, yes, of course, I think. of course, of course… a whole crew of quiet, small, people. we have a wood burning stove down there, a few pieces of old crappy furniture… they could cook and sleep. i’m now spinning a whole kinda sister-wife-dwarf mormon type o’ story, but obviously with a side of wacky and crazy… you know: moronism. nancy and i riff off into this whole new possibility, including home schooling and pottery throwing. i mean really, would i even know? no, i would not.
i live in denial on the main floor of the house. complete and utter denial.
there’s life below me, and i don’t even know about.
nancy and i agree that out of all three possibilities – affair, cancer, bankruptcy – affair is the winner.
ken comes into the garden room, where i am in fact getting this fabulous birthday gift/massage and i’m – lucky him – face-up. nancy is trying to get all the kinks out, and i say, ask boldly: okay buddy, what’s up? fess up, whats her name? and he smiles, his gorgeous sexy ken smile and says:
you know something, you’re fucking nuts, you know that. why can’t it just be that i love you. that i love you more every single day. that i fucking love you like a crazy man, why can’t it just be that i wanna give you the world, and you never ask for it, you never ask for big things, huge things, and why can’t it just be that i love you?
he bends down and kisses me, and leaves the garden room.
nancy looks down at me.
i look up at her.
i like her.
she gets the kink out of my neck.
i close my eyes. breathe in & out, in & out. in & out.
my third eye comes into view.
amazing clarity. i grab it, seize it.
and i say out loud:
and just like that, just like that, i drive straight outta crazyville, and get off at the exit where the sign (which is yes, lit in a gazillion little purple LED lights) reads, “welcome to trust.”