| General Non-Fiction posted September 6, 2021 |
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Deja vu of married misery trumps all
Visitors Bring Bad Memories
by Elizabeth Emerald
My friend Emily came for lunch today, Labor Day, with her husband and nine-year-old son.
The original plan was a cookout at their place. Emily invited two acquaintances and their children; both women declined.
I say "acquaintances" rather than "friends," of which Emily has only one: me.
This is through no fault of hers. The reason for Emily's dearth of friends is that her husband's paranoia is off-putting, as is the behavior of her autistic child.
Whenever I see Emily and her family, I am reminded of my 17-year stint with an antisocial husband and disturbed son.
And whenever I feel envy at Emily's continuing triumphs on the racing circuit, as contrasted to my pathetic performance, I remind myself that I wouldn't trade places with her.
Not even if all her medals were 24-karat gold.
My friend Emily came for lunch today, Labor Day, with her husband and nine-year-old son.
The original plan was a cookout at their place. Emily invited two acquaintances and their children; both women declined.
I say "acquaintances" rather than "friends," of which Emily has only one: me.
This is through no fault of hers. The reason for Emily's dearth of friends is that her husband's paranoia is off-putting, as is the behavior of her autistic child.
Whenever I see Emily and her family, I am reminded of my 17-year stint with an antisocial husband and disturbed son.
And whenever I feel envy at Emily's continuing triumphs on the racing circuit, as contrasted to my pathetic performance, I remind myself that I wouldn't trade places with her.
Not even if all her medals were 24-karat gold.
The original plan was a cookout at their place. Emily invited two acquaintances and their children; both women declined.
I say "acquaintances" rather than "friends," of which Emily has only one: me.
This is through no fault of hers. The reason for Emily's dearth of friends is that her husband's paranoia is off-putting, as is the behavior of her autistic child.
Whenever I see Emily and her family, I am reminded of my 17-year stint with an antisocial husband and disturbed son.
And whenever I feel envy at Emily's continuing triumphs on the racing circuit, as contrasted to my pathetic performance, I remind myself that I wouldn't trade places with her.
Not even if all her medals were 24-karat gold.
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