Mr. Everything

"Mr. Everything." That's what the Evansville Press called Charlie in 1962. Outstanding football player for Reitz High School. Heading to Vanderbilt on a football scholarship. Small town hero. My Prince Charming.

When I met him, I was immediately infatuated, and the infatuation was reciprocated. We wanted to be with each other every day, but he lived in Evansville and I lived in Indianapolis, so our time spent together was just two days out of seven. When I accepted his ring after six weeks, we had spent a total of twelve days getting to know one another  That's twelve days before saying "yes" to the person with whom you are going to spend the rest of your life.

Everyone who met Charlie was charmed by his personality. He's friendly demeanor and attentiveness to the person he was with at the moment removed any barriers one might have when first meeting a stranger. He was more interested in finding out about the other person than talking about himself. His southern accent was delivered with slow, deliberate accuracy.  He was impressive and I was proud to be on his arm, but there was just one small problem. I was still lugging around my two boxes, and I didn't think I deserved Mr. Everything.

For nine years, my "ugly" and "bad" boxes came in handy whenever my first prince wanted to knock me down a couple of notches, put me in my place, keep me in line, let me know I would never find another prince if I ever left him. He knew where I kept my boxes hidden, and if I didn't follow his lead or do as he wanted, he would head straight for a box, rummage though it, and pull out just the right weapon and then hit me below the belt with it.

Charlie knew about my secret boxes too, and he wanted to burn them--I wasn't ugly; I wasn't bad, he said.  He wanted to burn the boxes along with every single picture, letter, item that my prior prince had given me. He didn't want anything from my past to interfere with our future. So one day, on the balcony of my apartment, he lit a match to all of my memorabilia from the past nine years. Poof! Up in smoke. Gone.

Ten months (from the day we met)  to the wedding day, August 15, 1975. But only forty days with the person with whom I was going to spend the rest of my life, and it was speeding by. But not so fast that I didn't have time to change before the big day. There was the matter of my platonic male friends. They had to go. The occasional drag from a friend's cigarette? No way, Jose. No lips that touched Charlie's lips would ever touch a cigarette. And bikinis were a no-no. Too much skin. No skirt too short; no top too low. My desire to go to college? He preferred his wife to stay home and raise his kids, but it was negotiable. Did you know that there are jobs that women do and jobs only a man should do? I didn't know that either until one day I built a rip roaring fire in the fireplace, and he gave me the speech about my job description: housewife, mother, housekeeper.

Now I know what you're thinking. Okay, I lied. I have no clue what you're thinking. So I'll just ask the question myself. Why would I be with a man who wanted to control me so completely that I would have to change who I was. Good question. I have to thank myself for asking that question. Thank you Carol Louise.

At twenty-nine I should have known better. I should have known who I was but I didn't know. After nine years of manipulation and twisted game playing with Prince One, I was confused about who I was or what I wanted. I believed I was bad and ugly but lucky to have been chosen by my eighth-grade  crush: Mr. Popular. Mr. Successful. Mr. Everything.

Charlie did not manipulate or play games. He adored me, put me on a pedestal, and doted on me. He was the caring, loving father I never had. The saccharine he fed me was addictive. I craved it. All I had to do to get my fix was be the woman he wanted me to be.  Then one day, a month before our wedding, he presented me with the book The Total Woman, an instructional manual on how to please your man in every--and I mean every--way.  I read it and when I closed the book, it was as if someone had just spit in my favorite soup. Oh, how I loved that soup, but now I'm not sure if I can eat it.