My Million-Dollar Donkey (18 page)

“I’m missing the best years of my life. A girl could rot here,” she said with a melodramatic sigh.

“Not if you decide now you won’t let that happen,” I said. She was so young and had so much to learn about life. Like it or not, her existence would reinvent itself over and over as time wore on, for life tends to unfold that way. That said, a girl wouldn’t rot in Blue Ridge unless she did so by choice. Sadly, I knew the same sentiment applied to me.

I bought Kathy a copy of Webster’s Youth Dictionary, thinking the text might help with spelling. She gave the book a blank stare.

Holy cow, she doesn’t know what a dictionary is!

So I gave her an overview, teaching her how words are alphabetized. We devoted a full lesson to looking up the meanings of words, which also challenged her basic spelling skills and reading comprehension. I’d give her a word she didn’t know, like “tundra” or “allocate” and ask her to find the spelling in the dictionary. After several minutes of fumbling through the pages, she would find the word.

Kathy’s homework came back differently after that. When I asked her to write sentences, she’d bring me descriptions copied directly out of the dictionary, evidence that she was indeed using the book. I started wondering what other resources might expand her base of knowledge and promote more at home practice.

Mark and I had all kinds of computers in our storage unit, castoffs from our business that were older models and slower processers, but any one of them would be perfect for a person who’d never sat at a computer before. Learning to work a computer was certainly important if Kathy were to become self-sufficient.

The card catalog in our little town’s library was on a computer system. Driver’s tests were given on a computer here, and government offices used computers to make appointments. Our small schools put basic information and schedules online, and e-mail was the medium of choice for teachers wanting to communicate with parents. The country may be backward in some areas, but citizens here were hooked up like everyone else in America.

At our next session, I said, “I have an extra computer I could give you to set up at home if you’re interested.”

Kathy’s eyes grew round. “I’d love a computer. Then my son could do his schoolwork at home like the other kids. Maybe I can learn to work on a computer, too. I’d love to find out how to use the Internet.”

So the next week I brought her one of our used computers and a small computer desk. I was more than a little confused about where to start. Kathy had forty years of practice steering clear of anything that required reading. She had never had a bank account. Never used an ATM. Never swiped a credit card in a grocery store. Never bought gas outside at the pump. She had never ordered anything online, never looked up merchandise on a store computer, or even plugged in numbers on a jukebox to play her favorite song. Kathy had no clue how a computer worked, didn’t understand what applications were, didn’t know how to move a cursor, couldn’t type, and probably wouldn’t have a clue of how to turn the machine on. Operating a computer was going to be a huge challenge for someone still learning to master a BIC pen.

So, I bought her the
Jump Start
and
Reader Rabbit
programs for levels K-3. I wasn’t allowed to use non-credentialed materials on the college computers which were plunked right in the room we had our lessons, so I brought in my laptop to teach her some preschool game basics. For weeks afterwards, Kathy came to every lesson gushing about how much fun she was having practicing at home, and she confessed she had to fight for computer time with her family, which meant everyone was engaged in learning at home now. She even got the Internet hooked up, which I thought amazing for someone with such limited resources, until I read an article about people in third world countries spending money to build a community Internet station for the village children to gain access to the world before even drilling a well for water. Perhaps the Internet wasn’t a luxury item anymore.

I was proud to bring Kathy into the technology age, yet sorry too when I imagined her someday wasting hours on YouTube and tweeting with friends, rather than spending her time cooking or reading poetry.

I couldn’t fight the direction that innovation and progress was taking our world; only act responsibly regarding my own choices. So I swallowed my resistance, and introduced my simple friend to the very same fast-paced technological world that I was trying to escape. Meanwhile, I struggled to understand and embrace the slower, natural world Kathy maneuvered with such grace and acceptance.

If we met somewhere in the middle, we would probably both be better off.

More than half of the women in our small town were blonde, with fashionable doo’s that heightened their femininity. They wore impeccable makeup and clothes that were flattering to female curves, kept their nails manicured, had regular pedicures and facials, and used the tanning booth all winter long. Country gals almost seemed compelled to enhance their womanliness as a way of balancing out the raging masculinity of the local men.

The country boy’s basic attire consists of jeans and a dirty t-shirt, perhaps a cowboy hat or baseball cap to keep the sun off of their tanned skin. Often their hands are stained and their faces sport a day-old growth of beard. The country boys’ fitness levels are impressive, not because these he-men are hanging out in gyms pumping iron, but because their modes of work and recreation tax muscle. The typical day for a country boy includes hunting, training horses, putting up a shed, or working on the truck’s carburetor. This lifestyle makes for a manly man. Stacked up against the girly girls, the population is balanced as a whole.

Since balance is something Mark and I both craved after years of frustrating imbalance, we found the old-fashioned male and female roles on display endearing, if not downright fascinating. The men ruled the roost at home and the women let them.

The Southern belle country women, however, were not spoiled housewives such as some we knew in Florida, the type whose husbands made a lot of money and all they had to do was take yoga, get their hair done, and tote the kids around to dance lessons or soccer games. No, the women in the country all worked in female-oriented jobs, as teachers, hairdressers, nurses, or real estate agents. With pay scales low in a small town, the entire family had to pitch in to make ends meet, but since most country females had a disinterest in forging an ambitious career, their focus was taking care of the husband and children.

Amazingly, the fact that these hard working women made significant financial contributions to the family did not earn them a say in family decisions. The women worked to earn money and secure insurance from stable jobs while the men did piecemeal work in construction, spending the money and making the decisions. When a woman dared voice an objection, her opinion was viewed as anarchy. (“And that’s the way it’s supposed to be in a good, Christian family,” Ronnie explained. “The Bible says so.”)

Mark admitted he was envious. How nice to be married to a woman who knows her place and allows the man to be the man! There’s comfort in age-old attitudes designed to build up the man’s self-esteem. Happier husbands lead to happier wives. Theoretically, at least.

Mark’s desire for a traditional marriage dynamic wasn’t because he was unenlightened or chauvinistic, but born from a nagging scar that we’d been nursing as a couple for some 17 years. We operated as virtual equals, not so much because Mark respected me and relished my ambitious nature, but because he had no choice in the matter. Our dynamic had been established at the very beginning.

When I met Mark, I had just left a viable career as a leading choreographer and dancer in New York. I was the 29-year-old owner of a growing, hugely popular dance school business and I had a home of my own. I was a single parent who earned enough to care for her child responsibly. Mark was my dance student, and barely an adult at 23. He had no job, but quite a bit of debt. He lived with his mother, and had never been employed unless you count waiting tables a few nights a week and teaching an aerobics class. He fantasized about becoming a star, and had no career aspirations aside from acting or being a dancer. I wasn’t really interested in a man who brought so little to the table, but he pursued me diligently and as time went on, my reservations eroded away.

I was drawn to the unique creative synergy between us. I adored his company. I loved his laugh, his looks, and the way he gave lip service to liberal or new age attitudes, even though he rarely lived the ideals in practice. I loved his arrogance and sense of self-importance, and I excused his spoiled attitude as an unfortunate side effect of his high strung, artistic temperament. I fell, slowly but inevitably, in love with him despite his being so high maintenance.

I supported him financially for the first year or so that we were a couple, because he had no money. He just wanted to study dance and pursue his passions. Daily, I bought him lunch and let him hang at my place for free. The general attitude for us both was that I was the grown up with the business, and he was the young kid “artist” who couldn’t be tied to such worldly anchors as a job. Once we were married with a family to care for, I insisted he start contributing financially. I had no interest at all in being the only breadwinner saddled with an adult dependent, and since he couldn’t come up with anything he wanted to do on his own, he started working at the studio for me. We had a baby, and after some five years, another. As time wore on, Mark had no choice but to grow up and become a key player in my world of endless struggle and responsibility. I shared my business, my home, and my firstborn with him without reservation, but rather than feeling honored or lucky, from the very beginning he resented the weight of responsibility that came with being my partner.

I considered us equals in every way, but this didn’t change the fact that I was his boss and my name was on everything we owned— mortgage, business, car, etc. This created feelings of inferiority and further resentment on his part. He was my business partner, not just a husband, and he understandably wanted recognition for the sacrifices he was making as a fellow teacher. Unfortunately, I couldn’t relinquish power any more than I could conveniently wipe out my history as the founder of the school since people knew my background as well as his. Mark was exceptionally talented and he made significant contributions to the business, but the fact was, I was the one with a reputation in the dance field, and the one who drove the business and managed our affairs to keep revenue coming in. My stepping aside as the figurehead was never an option, even if I wanted to, which I did not.

We worked side by side for years, the synergy created by the combination of my experience and pragmatic approach and his natural creativity the success factor that made our little company eventually worth a million dollars. But deep down, Mark never felt amply recognized. The elements that he found so very attractive about me in the beginning, such as my talent and drive and the way people looked up to me, became the qualities he hated most about me later, as is often the case in the complex story of love.

Mark now had 17 years of hard feelings built up, and his animosity leaked out in a myriad of ways, beginning with his inability to sincerely celebrate any achievement I made, and eventually by punishing me with constant long periods of physical alienation. Sex was the only thing he had total control of in our relationship, and he wielded his power by ignoring me with a vengeance. Our relationship had long since turned into something more like siblings or best friends than lovers.

Fourteen years into the marriage, driven by the oppressive circumstances of our ongoing lack of physical connection, I had a fall from grace. I forged a connection to an old friend on the Internet, and so moved was I to be on the receiving end of a man’s interest and appreciation that I stupidly had a one night stand on a trip out of town. Remorseful, I confessed to Mark. This flung open the door to the traditional drama that befalls a marriage when trust is broken. The episode lead to our living apart for a month, and we seriously contemplated divorce. But like many couples in crisis, we worked through the horrible breach of faith with accusations, tears, and apologies, and in the end, we determined that we loved each other and would stay together.

I was ashamed and regretful of my mistake, and would have done anything to undo my folly. Mark took responsibility for his part in the sad ordeal, promising he would never leave me untouched for months (or years) again. Our love was authentic—certainly authentic enough to recognize what our mistakes were and how they came to be—and we both stated our love would be stronger once we overcame the problem.

All of this drama and the close call of divorce was a contributing factor in our decision to sell the business and escape our stalemate existence in Florida. Moving to the country represented a clean slate and the opportunity for a new dynamic and a fresh beginning. Mark insisted he wasn’t that young financial mess living with his mother anymore. He was a man with a deep desire to prove himself, and he desperately wanted to assume the leadership role to show the world, and
me
, what he could do if only he was totally in charge. If he had the power to make the decisions about our money and our future, then our intimacy issues would smooth out too, or so he assured me.

All I had to do was let him be
the guy
.

Now, you might think I would be uncomfortable giving up my independence so completely, but in truth, I wanted to reverse roles as much as he did. Loving someone who resents you, who can’t resist making little digs about your behavior, or who can’t bring themselves to show pride or interest in any of your achievements because every accomplishment is viewed as a sign of your swelled ego is no fun. Being deeply in love with someone who won’t touch you with tenderness is no fun either.

Mark had made infinitely clear that since he’d been wronged, he had the right to take additional liberties in the give and take of household equality. I was serving my penance, which meant I had no right to stop him from spending, and if he wanted to leave me bitterly alone while he shopped himself sick, that was his prerogative too.

I was deathly tired of the energy required to be the driving force of the business and, at the same time, a fulltime wife and mother. I was tired of balancing finances and being the boss and having to ‘force’ my husband to accept projects (and the work involved) to keep revenue coming into the family. I was sick being the one to take out the trash and get new car tires and all the other traditionally male tasks that fell on my plate because I married a guy who considered me capable. Deep down, I was just as jealous of other marriages as he was. I envied women who were married to men who made decisions, paid the bills, made love enthusiastically, and took care of all the mechanical and masculine details of life with confidence. I wanted to be
the girl,
and giving Mark the reins to our life seemed to be the key.

Just as we had flipped the switch from being city dwellers to country residents, dancers to farmers, obsessive workers to retired people, we flipped roles in our marriage, too. Mark took over all the decisions and assumed complete control over our finances. Overnight, he became the ultimate authority regarding what we bought, where we lived, what we could afford, and how our life would unfold. He occasionally asked for my opinion about the color of a new couch he wanted to buy or what kind of tile I thought would look best in the kitchen, but if I voiced a preference that was in any way opposed to what he wanted, he forged ahead and did whatever he wished anyway. That was okay by me. I couldn’t care less what color the couch was, really. I just wanted us to be happy and to interact in a healthy way
on
that couch.

Old habits are hard to break, so when some of Mark’s decisions set off warning bells, I couldn’t help but ask questions about our finances, such as when he canceled our youngest child’s college plan to free up more money for his building project. Mark’s opinion was we couldn’t afford her college plan now, but we would have plenty of money to attend to her educational needs later. Unable to satisfy my desire to keep up her little savings plan, I went ahead and paid off the last of my son’s prepaid tuition, facing Mark’s displeasure stoically.

“Certainly you can build a house without canceling college plans too. We have so much to work with,” I argued, a sick foreboding of doom settling around my heart as more and more I saw evidence that we had very different priorities.

The reinvention of our life was now in full force. We had changed locations, careers, and life attitudes. Our wardrobe was different, landscape was different, furniture was different, dogs were different, friends were different, recreational choices different, diet different, cars different, reading material different, and our family dynamic too was different.

The problem was, no matter how different everything was externally, inside we were still basically the same. Mark still felt undermined and controlled when I voiced even the simplest concern about his spending and priorities. He maintained control in the only way he knew, by avoiding physical intimacy and alienating me when he was displeased. We were back in our dysfunctional rut, only this rut admittedly had a prettier landscape.

Everything I had wanted in life before we retired, I wanted still. Peace. Romance with my husband. Family time. Expansive opportunity for my children. A life that was more about experiences and togetherness than “stuff.” The business, long blamed as the cause of our problems, was gone, so why was I so lonely, and still shattered because my husband found endless excuses to put off physical togetherness? How come, no matter how much money we had, we were constantly in debt and financial stress continued to chase us as if it was tied to our tails by a string?

I couldn’t put a voice to my disappointment or frustration, because admitting a few million dollars and total freedom wasn’t enough to fix what ailed us meant we had to look deeper. We had seized an amazing opportunity to create whatever kind of life we wanted. We began this journey with a beautiful family, a long history as a couple, and a solid marriage. We had several million dollars in property, pledges, and the bank, and the time and freedom to do anything we wanted from this day forward. To be anything less than grateful for a life filled with such blessings would be a sin, right?