It’s surprisingly
easy to spot unhappy married couples in a public place. These are the couples
sitting in the booth or on the terrace staring off at a wall as if in a
trance, doing everything in their power to avoid the agony of a gentle
word or a sympathetic ear to their "significant" other. You see them everywhere,
aimlessly window shopping hand in hand, diverting their attention from
the festering wound, more like the dismemberment, that is their relationship.
It always saddens and baffles me to see this sort of behavior from two
grown "adults," and that’s why it’s so refreshing and joyous when the opposite
occurs.
From my Jimmy
O’s perch on Sunday, I was witnessing two such couples. What was I doing
at a bar on Mother’s Day you ask? Well... Mom understands the need for
a few morning mimosas and the study of social interaction in a human laboratory.
She’s great. She once told me, "Always do sober what you said you’d do
drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut." Or maybe that was
Hemingway. Anyway, they were both great breeders of six-toed cats. Mmmm...
six-toed cats, a delicacy. But I digress.
The Lakes were
fighting like hell to eliminate the Kings. I was nervous. I didn’t care
if they did have a 3-0 lead in the series. They had to win this game to
prove to me they’d forgotten the disastrous record in elimination games
from a year ago. They had to prove that they were as confident in their
abilities as their fourteen-game win streak reflected. They had to prove
that they were taking everyone seriously, from the dissented Blazers to
the upstart Kings and most formidable Spurs. I needed a drink.
The game seesawed
back and forth, which didn’t calm the nerves any. These Kings were not
going away quietly like they were supposed to. Stojakovic and Terkaglu
insisted on making shots, to my chagrin, which almost caused me to start
DOING shots. I relented with another Mimosa and witnessed Kobe picking
up his fallen partner and carrying him off to the promised land (known,
for now, as San Antonio). Shaq was in awe of his significant other’s performance
as the hugs and the smiles attested to upon victory. It was a beautiful
thing; complete harmony, symbiotically achieved by a happy couple.
My third Mimosa
arrived to the sound of breaking glass. The couple at the booth behind
me, that had been catatonic just two minutes prior, were now in an arm
lock that would’ve made Sean Croll, the former headlock world champion,
jealous. The Mrs. heaved her Bavarian beer, completely missing the intended
target, her husband. It whirled by my ear and crashed into the mirrored
glass behind the bar, shattering it and the surrounding Chivas bottles.
The husband quickly became enraged, and he jumped across the table to do
more permanent damage than a mere bruise around the neck. Luckily, the
bouncers were all over the situation. Even the bartender jumped over the
mahogany in an attempt to break up the quarrel. Alisa, my endearing and
consoling waitress, was quickly by my side, as she knows how sheepish I
can get around confrontations. I milked it.
Now, I don’t
want to get into things like the importance of communication, listening
and other loathsome psychobabble. Let’s face it, when a relationship works...
it works, and when it doesn’t, Robert Blake, O.J., and William Shatner
play golf (they’re always looking for a fourth). It’s sad. But, that’s
exactly why Shaq and Kobe’s fusion is so great. When we’ve gone through
some adversity, times of trouble, or hard work, we enjoy our time off all
the more. It’s easier to see the good things in life when we’ve gone through
the bad. The same theory applies here. When ninety percent of relationships
are gross distortions of someone’s idea of love or a selfish need of companionship
or whatever, the ten percent shine like guiding lights. In fact, they’re
so great the ninety percent try to emulate. But you can’t, and Kobe and
Shaq know that. I just hope they’re not consummating that relationship.
Alas, this
is why I stay single. I don’t have the delusions of grandeur that the woman
of my dreams will be at Jimmy O’s one night, our eyes will meet across
the crowded bar, and we’ll be together forever until the end of time. Both
Shaq and Kobe know that it takes an acceptance, a tolerance of the other
to accomplish their goals... and it happens naturally, over time. Well,
that time has come for my Lakes.
For me, however,
things won’t change. My apartment will still be littered with credit card
receipts from late night bar crawls, clothes strewn across the floor, and
dishes piled up in the sink. My clothes will remain the tattered remnants
of a bourgeoisie child that has grown into a child who collects a paycheck
and hopes for a middle class tax cut. I will still drink Coors Lite on
dates and Moroccan Merlot while relaxing at dusk. I will continue to live
life by the seat of my pants, spontaneously doing and saying whatever I
want. You may find this irresponsible and flippant. But... hey, at least
I’m not in a cursed marraige. Just like Shaq and Kobe... Well... Shaq anyway.
