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Valentine's Day

    As I look into my wife's beautiful brown eyes and ponder our successful marriage, only one word can truly describe not only my feelings, but also the very essence of our union...incongruity. It's a good word. It means "unsuitable, inharmonious, not in agreement, incompatible". It describes my marriage to a "T", and is probably the reason it has lasted. A more incongruous pairing of two people would be difficult to find.

      I am a 49 year old Baby-Boomer, and my wife is a 26 year old Generation-X'er. We have been married eight years, and have two young sons, ages 7 and 2. I am a college-educated, Vietnam-era idealist, and my wife is angry, clueless and hasn't yet finished high school. She is conservative and adorable, I am liberal and clever. I love politics, she raises our children. I wear earrings and do all the cooking and laundry, she has large tattoos and likes to guzzle beer. I play the guitar, she's good with computers. She is Latin, I am Anglo...and so on, Ad Infinitum.

     The life fashioned from this generational juxtoposition within a marriage, as rare as it is (you try being 41 and snagging a beautiful 18 year-old), gives new meaning to the word "hybrid". It's Mom, apple pie and Ecstasy...Leave It To Beaver with tattoos...I Hate Lucy. My marriage should be on television at three o'clock in the afternoon. It's the marital equivalent of a major league off-speed breaking pitch. The gods must be rolling around the floor howling with laughter right now. But let 'em laugh. For my marriage is also a testimonial to something very important. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what. But it must be something, 'cause it works. In addition, it offers (sometimes hilarious) insight into the melding of two generations that really don't like each other, and the imperfect steps taken to transcend those differences and raise our children (in Hollywood!) with a semblance of normalcy. It requires me to live in two worlds simultaneously.

     Generation X's dislike of Baby-Boomers is rivaled only by the contempt held by Boomers toward X'ers. Gen-X feels disrespected, abandoned and ignored by an older generation viewed as self-absorbed, haughty to the extreme and uninterested in anyone's needs but its own. Boomers shrug and couldn't care less. It's just another Generation Gap, and they know that drill already. "If we rejected our parents' culture then, we certainly don't need yours now", is a message that resonates loud and clear with anyone born after 1970. But there is also something missing from the generation that invented youth culture all those years ago...youth. We thought it would last forever. It didn't. We thought it would always be 1968. It isn't. Ageing wasn't even an option. But now our youth has been stolen by a generation that doesn't even deserve it, and we're not going to let it go without a fight! Youth is wasted on that crew. They don't even like long hair. How dare they! It's sad, it's undignified and it's certainly unworthy of a worthy generation, but it's probably not going to change until we're all in walkers. On the other hand, my wife's generation, for a variety of reasons often beyond its control, has remained relatively under-educated, under-skilled and nearly helpless. In a word, lost. Whereas my generation turned its youthful angst outwardly (Vietnam, social inequalities, Richard Nixon), X internalizes its anger, and what emerges is pain and self-loathing. Issues change, and anger subsides, but the passion of youth remains. And if this passion is channeled destructively, the result can be disfunction. So it's probably best that these two generations, as volatile a mix as they are, exist in parallel, but separate, worlds. Yet here I stand, in the eye of the storm, witness and arbiter to two competing ideologies. A schizoid view of the world through the prism of holy matrimony. Idealistic-Hopelessness. Life as misnomer. As theory, ridiculous. As reality, brilliant, if you can pull it off. and my being able to pull it off fully attests to my brilliance...at choosing a mate.

     To say that my wife is quiet is classic understatement. She makes cloistered monks sound chatty. A conversation with my wife entails you talking. Cadavers have more to say. Once in a while, she'll blink twice. Do I like it? No, I love it. I talk enough for two people. She likes to listen. That doesn't mean I don't solicit her opinions, because she is quick under that silent demeanor, and if I ask, she will respond. But given the choice, I prefer comatose. And this isn't to imply that my wife is oblivious to things around her, but recently I grew a beard, and she didn't even notice. This is actually a good thing, as it means I'm not pestered, badgered or nagged about anything, and that's always nice. Some men need a second mother, but I ain't one of 'em. One mother is fine, thank you. However, as appreciation for an attitude that allows me psychological freedom, I always tell her where I'm going and where I've been. It shows respect and consideration, always important in any marriage. Fortunately, I have little need of approval, beard or no beard, and as I intend to shave it off soon, she probably won't notice that either.

     My wife is a slob, First Class. Her idea of order is whatever it is she's looking for falls out of the closet first when she opens the door. She's happiest after a major earthquake. Our two year -old picks up after her. I'm a neat freak. I like everything put away. It improves my morale and sense of balance. Thus, it was with a sense of extreme horror that I discovered that, all my efforts notwithstanding, slobs trump neat-nics. It's one of the laws of nature. It doesn't take much effort to mess up a place, and it can be done quickly. Cleaning up wears you out, and you never seem to be finished. Plus, slobs are irrepressible and incorrigible; you can neither stop nor change them. It's futile to even try. These people are order-challenged. Conversely, it can't be easy living with the anallyretentive. Our neurosis becomes your neurosis, and it can get to be a bit much sometimes, but at least everything is put away.

     I tend bar on the weekends just to get some peace and quiet. How is that? Because my homelife is louder than the Second World War! I have Dennis The Menace and Bart Simpson for sons. They're the reincarnation of Frank and Jesse James, and one is still in diapers! I'm the local sheriff that gets run out of town in the middle of the night in his underwear. The decibel level at my house approaches the threshold of death. You can't imagine the racket that two little boys can make. I could find more solace in the teeth of a hurricane. The irony of this is that my wife is as silent as the Sphinx, and to be continually surrounded by what sounds like the receiving end of an artillery barrage must be a bit unnerving. She never complains, however, although I attribute that to a state of catatonia induced by extreme shock.

     I have learned that being married turns you into Al Bundy. I have also learned that having children turns you into Homer Simpson. Try that combination on for size. Pa Kettle meets Daddy Dinkey. It leaves you with the dignity of a goat. I catch myself saying the same things they do sometimes, and I assume that's one of the reasons the two shows have been so popular. Married fathers instinctively empathize with those two knuckleheads, though rarely admitting it. Maybe that's an insight into a successful marriage; accepting the realization that you're no longer a man...you're a husband; like a guy with no teeth admiring an apple. After all, the Bundy's and the Simpsons, for all their faults, were still functional families. Life imitates art imitating life. That sounds like my family.

     My little tribe practices a lifestyle that can only be described as Bohemian. We're New Millennial Hippies. This is not so much out of frugality, as it is a reflection of my social and political leanings, and it's one area my wife and I share common ground, thankfully. Our home has less furnishings than a padded cell. There's nothing to clean but the floor. We make Gandhi look Bourgeois. My mother says that I'd rather have the applause than the money, and she's right. Though I don't necessarily advocate a life of Spartan self-denial, neither do I have a need to appear in "Better Homes And Gardens", and collecting household stuff just doesn't interest me. Why invest in nice furnishings that are only going to get trashed by young children, that you're going to bust your toes into at night in the dark getting a glass of water, and that make the rooms look smaller and more cramped? Just give me open spaces and stuffed pillows on the floor, and I'm happy. Maybe a guitar in the corner. My wife seems to share in this vision, or at least she's never complained about it, and it gives our boys more room to play, which makes them happy (how many children truly appreciate a nice dining room set, anyway?). As long as my family is healthy, and our cars are running, then who needs material wealth. I don't begrudge people their creature comforts, but I suspect that those who accumulate expensive things, beyond what is necessary, are trying to fill psychic holes, and I have no need for such faux-therapy. If people would just spend less time worshipping money, and spend more time worshipping each other, they might find other things to be more satisfying and fulfilling after all. I believe this to be a key component in the success of my marriage, though I'm always hungry.

     I love dogs. I love big dogs. I grew up around big dogs, and they make you proud to walk them around the neighborhood. So naturally, we have a Chihuahua. It's a constant source of embarrassment. My wife wanted it, so I shelled out the most wasted $700.00 of my life. I could have gotten better value if I had eaten the money. This thing looks like a rodent on crack. It's hairless, it's eyes are bugged out, and it's forever quivering. It doesn't bark, it yaps. I can't really play with her, lest I snap it's pencil-thin legs off. Whoever first bred these dogs into existence sure had a strange sense of humor. They crossed a rat with a speed freak. But at least she doesn't like to go outside, so I don't have to suffer the indignity of walking a Chihuahua around the neighborhood.

     My wife is good with computers. I can't even turn one on, not that I'd want to. I interpret its digital smugness as a thumbnose at my analog existence, and I know that it not only feels superior to me, but fully intends to enslave me to its word-perfect logic. I view it as existential warfare. My wife thinks I'm paranoid and silly. She views it as a user-friendly teacher's aide, and uses it constantly. She may be right, but I still don't trust it, though I can appreciate its importance to those that do.

     At this point, I'd like to remind my fellow Boomers of something that many seem to have forgotten; that one only gets old when one forgets what it's like being young, and I don't mean with cooler toys and hair transplants. Tolerance for the unfamiliar and the seemingly incomprehensible will keep us from sounding like our parents. And to my wife's fellow X'ers; the raging fires within are self-consuming if allowed to burn unchecked. It merely leaves a charred hulk, useless to self and others. I rescued an X'er, and my wife rescued a Boomer. Our marriage seems to have rescued us both from the pitfalls that often doom other couples, by initiating the daily, sometimes difficult, metamorphoses required to successfully fit a square peg into a round hole. Does this explain successful marriages? Probably not. Our formula is unconventional, and, as such, not very practical. Does it explain the success of my marriage? Probably. Am I a father-figure to a girl young enough to be my daughter? Maybe, but that seems overly simplistic (Freud would love that). Do I desire an adorable hood ornament to make me look and feel good around town? Possibly, but again that's the easy answer.Do we need each other? Yes, but for different reasons. She needs the steady counsel of maturity and wisdom that comes from age, and I need the liberating effect of the exuberance, recklessness and excitement of youth. She keeps me young, I make her older. We meet in the middle. But when the twists and turns of a marriage are Shakespearian in scope, insights can be both elusive and illusory. I suppose you get out of something what you put into it, but that doesn't really explain anything. Gaining real understanding often entails interpretation of perspective within a context. This can be illusory, since one must trust one's own perspective and interpretation. Tricky stuff because it's so relative. Within the context of my marriage, I try to glean insight from the improbable bond my wife and I have formed by first accepting the mechanism of incongruity, that crazy dynamic detailed earlier, which seems to be the energy source in our relationship. What separates us keeps us together, But just as one must be careful when harnessing the energy produced by the splitting of atoms, one must also take care in the handling of "creative tension" formed when opposites attract. It must be channeled constructively, lest it jump explosively out of control. Nothing should be taken for granted. Again, tricky stuff, and probably easier said than done, but I'm sure it beats divorce court.

     Love is defined by our lives, much the way rustling leaves on a tree define the wind passing through it. Or, put another way, as that old blues refrain goes, "I don't know what love is, but I sure got it bad". I mention this primarily as lip service to romantics, because any discussion of marriage usually entails the word "love". But that's a problem, since it is, after all, just a word, and the word doesn't really define the concept. Poetry is fine, but it probably won't save your marriage. So I won't trifle with the semantics of the thing. However, one need not speak its name to feel its breeze. The way we arrange our lives defines love's purpose, even if we don't understand its concept. Like most people, I've always liked Valentine's Day. It allows me to feel romantic unselfconsciously; to ponder the sweeter, softer, warmer things in life. A day (and night) for just the two of us; a bouquet of roses, a Lovers' holiday. So what happens? My wife goes and gives birth to our second son (one week early) on Valentine's Day! The ultimate gift for any man, to be sure. But now my quiet romantic day with my wife entails shrieking children chasing each other around the house, cake, ice cream, birthday presents, blaring music, exploding balloons, exhaustion. It's the Fourth of July in February! That figures. So much for romance. But, again, the arrangement of our lives (though inadvertent) defined the wind as it rippled though the trees, unseen except for the rustle of the leaves, manifesting itself as our little Valentine, one holiday replacing another. The gods sure have a good sense of humor. Incidentally, I also still do the flowers, card and candy for my better half. She more than deserves it after being married to me for all these years.