If He Would Just Pick Me

He hadn't had a thimble's worth of happiness in his entire life, he said. He was lying on his back on his waterbed in the downstairs parlor of his one-hundred year old depilated farmhouse he rented on the south side of Indianapolis. It was Saturday night and we'd just returned to his place after a night out with his friends. He'd had a few too many beers, and instead of being happy and high, he was sad and emotional. He wasn't crying but his eyes were bloodshot and moist. I sat down on the edge of the bed and listened to all the reasons for his unhappiness. Due to his propensity for silence (he didn't talk a  lot), I felt a closeness I'd never had with him in the four months since we had started dating. He was talking. Something he rarely did. He was sharing his most personal secrets with me. Me. Did this mean he trusted me? If only he could know that I was trustable; I would keep his secrets. Did this mean I had moved up in status from a girl he dated to the only girl he dated? If only he could know that I was a good person and with me as a mate I could help him with his sadness. If he picked me, I would work really hard to show him life could be happy. I could make him happy. If he would just pick me.

He had what I wanted. Since I was a little girl, I had always wanted to live in a farmhouse surrounded by acres of farmland.  His farmhouse sat on top a hill in the middle of 160 acres of land. He was a cowboy farmer, ruggedly handsome, over six feet tall, blonde hair, blue eyes, and quiet, which I translated to be shy. He was  the strong, silent, hard-to-reach type. (Think Robert Redford in Electric Horseman.) This man was my choice. Please pick me. Pick me. By the spring of 1980, he had picked me, too. But there was just one itty bitty problem: the ex-wife and two daughters.

As soon as I met his ex and two little girls, I was enamored with them as well. All three. There was nothing about them to dislike. His wife was sweet and kind and the girls (Amy, 4, and Stacia, 7) took to me right away. He said he could never, ever go back to her; it was over, done, finished. But then his ex-wife started to date, and that made him very sad. He couldn't imagine another man trying to be a father to his daughters. So he went back to his family. But happiness was not to be found, so he left his family and came back to me. Me. He had what I wanted so I took him back. Well, he was heartsick; his confusion was understandable. But then his ex-wife appeared to be happy without him and was moving on with her life without him, and that made him very sad. So he went back to his family. But where oh where was happiness? He left his family and came back to me. He had what I wanted so I took him back. Well, he was confused; his indecision was understandable. But then his ex-wife told him to stay with me; it was over, done, finished between them, and that made him very sad.  So he went back to his family, but the locks had been changed and all of his clothes she had washed and ironed for him were floating in the pond next to her house. You know what I'm going to say, don't you? You're so smart. He came back to me. He had what I wanted so I took back this sad man who hadn't had a thimble's worth of happiness in his entire life. I could fix that, ya know.

The cowboy picked me. Me. With me as his wife and mother of his future son, he could stop with the sad stories now. No more sadness. Sadness be gone. Sadness is over, done, finished. Okay, enough with the sadness already. Bye, bye sadness. Whatever it took--sacrifice or suffering or working harder or doing things I didn't want to do--so be it. I would do anything to make this sad man happy.

But I failed.

"Being good and doing good is good, except when it isn't."

                                                      --Larry, the first one