Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “AND the lots o’cheese one," I continue. “Now all we need to decide on is a salad.”

  “I want the Caesar," Roraigh says.

  “Your mother and I are getting a divorce," Steve blurts out.

  Megan’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. Roraigh scrunches down into his seat, crosses his arms, avoids eye contact and looks pissed.

  My jaw drops as I look at my husband. What. The. Fuck?

  “As you know, your mother and I have not been happy for awhile," he continues. “This has nothing to do with either of you. Nothing you did caused our love to die.”

  “Wow," I say in a clipped tone just as Megan asks, “Why would we think it was something we did?”

  “You wouldn’t," I assure her. “I think what your dad is trying to say is that we don’t want you to feel hurt or ‘less than’ just because as a family…”

  “I think I can speak for myself," Steve tells me angrily.

  “Really?” I snap sarcastically. “Because you’re doing a bang-up job so far of what you agreed you’d say.”

  “You mean what you and the therapist agreed I’d say. You know, she has always been on your side. She never liked me...”

  I lean into the table and ask in a lowered voice, “Can you not make this all about you for once, and maybe focus on your kids?”

  “I am focused on my kids. And I don’t believe in lying to them," he tells me angrily. Then he gently takes Megan’s hand and tells her softly, “Megan, your mother and I still love each other, in our own way. But we can not go on living together. We’re just both so unhappy. And wouldn’t you rather have happy parents who live separately than unhappy parents who live together?”

  “The second one," Roraigh answers definitively, staring daggers at his father.

  “What?” Steve asks Roraigh, confused.

  “I’d rather have you living together. This is bullshit.”

  Steve clearly wasn’t ready for Roraigh’s aggressive reaction. He looks down at his bright white plate for a moment, breathes in a tense breath, and assures our son, “Nothing in your lives is going to change. I’m still going to see you just as much as I did before. I’ll just see you at your Uncle Jason’s house for awhile instead.”

  “Schyeah. Uncle Jason’s. Right," Roraigh nearly spits.

  Oh, shit. He knows. How does he know?

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Steve asks him almost threateningly.

  “So what are you going to do?” Roraigh asks his father in disgust. “Just turn fifty and blow up your life? You really think there’s someone else out there better? Mom rocks.”

  Wait, I do? Well, that’s nice to hear.

  Steve is about to answer, but I speak over him. “This has nothing to do with anyone else. It has to do with your father and me...” Roraigh opens his mouth to speak but I raise my voice to make it clear I’m not done talking. “And only your father and me. It is not your job to take sides, or to try to fix this, or to speculate on what might be going on in our relationship.”

  Roraigh begins, “But…”

  “I’m about to give you a crucial lesson in life, and one that will serve you well," I tell my son, “You will never really know what is going on in anyone else’s relationship but your own. And most days, you need to back off.”

  I make the statement in a tone that I hope gently but firmly says, “This conversation is over.” But, really, it’s just the beginning of the conversation, one I’m sure will go on for years. I calmly suggest to both kids, “So let’s focus on you guys. What can we do for either of you to make this transition easier?”

  The table goes silent, and Steve and I allow it to stay that way while we let the kids process.

  Megan looks stunned. I know her well enough to know the heartbreak will settle in later. Right now she’s just in shock. Roraigh, on the other hand, looks ready to punch his father. I’ve never seen my child look so enraged.

  The waitress comes to take our drink orders. I think all of us are happy for the distraction. Once she leaves, the silence once again becomes deafening.

  “So, what should we talk about?” I finally ask.

  Everyone’s eyes dart around the table, flicking this way and that. Finally Megan says, “I like my teachers. Seventh grade seems cool.”

  “Same," Roraigh grunts.

  And that’s it. Neither kid wants to talk about any of our news. We proceed to ignore the elephant in the room for the rest of dinner.

  When the meal is over, Steve walks the kids and me to my car, and gives us hugs goodbye. I take the kids home, and we settle into our usual nighttime routine: homework, watching a TV show as a family, showers and brushing teeth.

  No one mentions the divorce, or Steve, once. Both kids seem to be glued to their phones, and for tonight, that’s fine. They may not be mentioning the divorce out loud to me, but they are silently talking to their friends about it.

  When I put Megan to bed at 9:30, she gives me a long hug and asks me to keep her door open and the hallway light on.

  Roraigh, whose bedtime isn’t until 10:30, announces he’s going to bed early, and shuts his door at 9:35.

  I retire to my room, turn out the light, and stare at the dark ceiling. I feel numb.

  By 9:45, I hear a knock on my door. “Come in.”

  Megan opens the door. “Can I stay here with you?”

  “Of course," I say, making a show of lifting my blanket up so she can snuggle in.

  We spoon, and I stroke her hair for almost an hour before I finally hear the deep breathing of sleep.

  A little before 11:00, Roraigh silently pads in. We exchange eye contact, but no words. He walks to the other side of the bed and lies down to my right. I put out my arm, and let him snuggle into the crook. He eventually falls asleep without a word.

  And here I lie, with my chicks in the nest surrounding me, not sleeping. And wondering how the Hell any of us are ever going to be happy again.

  Fifteen

  Zoe

  Once the kids are asleep (or at least hiding in their rooms texting from their beds) I bring my laptop to bed, and happily settle into our new “project."

  Carlos emerges from our shower, hair damp, and a towel wrapped around his waist. “Oh man, I’m exhausted.”

  “No time to be exhausted," I tell him as I type. “Time to work on our plan.”

  “Do we have to do this tonight?” he whines, sighing as he slips into bed next to me.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun,” I say, cheerfully clicking away at my keyboard. “Okay. Swingers’ bars,” I begin, deciding not to hit “I feel lucky” on the Google search.

  “Don’t just write swingers’ bars," Carlos advises. “Say swingers’ bars not for old people.”

  I look over at him. “Don’t we count as old people?”

  “No," he answers, appearing insulted. “We’re middle-aged people.”

  “I see. So you’re planning to live to be ninety eight?”

  “Yes.”

  I shake my head. “Fine. I’ll be gone by then. Have fun with the casserole ladies," I say while typing, swingers bars couples in their forties.

  “But I’ll be fifty later this year," Carlos says, leaning over to see what I’m working on.

  “I don’t think they card, Honey.”

  “Why wouldn’t they card?”

  I shrug. “Fair enough. Let’s see… Sex Sea. They’re in Marina del Rey. The Hedonists are in downtown. Both have a Yelp review. Sex Sea comes in first at 4 ½ stars.”

  I click through to the reviews of Sex Sea. Carlos reads the screen, “Touching without asking may get you thrown out.”

  “MAY get you thrown out?” I repeat.

  He continues reading. “And bring your own alcohol.”

  “Wrong! Next.”

  “But the Hedonists only have four stars," Carlos points out.

  “If we’re doing this, I want good red wine." I say clicking to… “Okay! The Hedonists. Let’s see why someone gave them a one star review…
” We both lean in to read. After scanning the first few sentences, Carlos’ jaw drops, “How would that even work?” while I declare, “So the Hedonists are out.”

  I begin a new search. “What if we expand our parameters to… Oh here!” I exclaim, then happily read, “A place in Beverly Hills with tuxedoed waiters, champagne and light appetizers.”

  “Light appetizers? Is that code for…”

  “Ew. It’s code for ‘food’, Carlos. They serve food.”

  “Are you sure?” Carlos asks skeptically.

  Well, no, I’m not sure. I type light appetizer, then swinger’s code, into Google. We end up down a rabbit hole for fifteen minutes, not only learning various code words for swinging, but also how to make a decent tapas plate with nothing but ingredients from our pantry. “I never would have thought to pair pomegranate with Brie," I tell Carlos.

  “I feel like we’ve lost focus," he surmises.

  “Okay, But remind me to try that pomegranate recipe.”

  And we’re back to Beverly Hills: “So there’s a questionnaire we can fill out online, a phone interview, and…” I furrow my brow. “Never mind.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Initiation fee is two thousand dollars.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “Okay, we need to think outside the box here," I suggest.

  “Going to let that joke slide.”

  “Maybe we’re not swingers. Maybe we’re more… teeter totters.”

  “What does that mean?” Carlos asks.

  “From the code we looked up.”

  “Ah…” Carlos says. Then he abruptly says, “Okay, I think we’re done for the night. Let’s pick this up another time.”

  As he stands up and heads to his dresser, I ask, “Wait. You’re not getting ready for bed, are you?”

  “I told you, I’m exhausted," he says, throwing his wet towel on the floor as he opens his top dresser drawer. “And I have a super early day tomorrow. I have a conference call with a client in London at six a.m., and I need to be up by 5:30 to prep for it.”

  “Oh," I say, not bothering to mask my disappointment. Then I try to salvage the evening by asking hopefully, “Do you want to go one more round?”

  “Awww… you wore me out," he teases as he pulls out underwear and puts it on. “Raincheck?”

  I look down at my knees and visibly pout. Carlos laughs a little as he closes his top drawer and opens the second one. “Come on, didn’t you have fun today?” he asks, pulling out an old T-shirt sporting a logo from a band I hate but used to pretend to like.

  “Of course.” I say as he puts on the dreaded T. “But I don’t want to be done yet. Remember when we used to have sex in the morning and at night?”

  “I never know how to respond to that," he says, coming back to bed, lying down, and putting out his left arm as an invitation for me to lie down and burrow into my spot.

  Disappointed but covering, I close my computer, put it on the nightstand, and gently sink my head onto his chest.

  Three minutes later, Carlos kisses me on the cheek: his signal for me to turn around so we can spoon.

  Five minutes after that, he is snoring in my ear.

  I spend the next thirty minutes staring into space, wishing I was tired. Occasionally I look at my phone to check the time. Finally, I silently remove Carlos’s arm from around my waist, and putter down to our home office.

  I sit at my computer, deciding to look up the most well known “cheating” site. I know Carlos said “no” initially, but maybe he’ll change his mind if I can find him some good options.

  On their home page, they brag about having over fifty million members. Holy shit! I had no idea. Apparently, open marriages must now be a thing.

  I know I should probably look around for Carlos, but I’m selfish. I start with my own options, quickly answering the opening questionnaire, which is mostly about body type. (I hate that one. Does any woman want to describe how she really sees her body?) They want an email address, so I get a new one just for this site. I agree to the terms and limitations, and hit send. Within minutes, I get an email from the site advertising it’s free for women, and giving me a link to explore the men in my area.

  I do.

  Whoa. A whole page of pictures pops up, including one man who looks exactly like my dream man back in college. (It might actually be him. Yikes! Moving on…)

  Looking around the site for a few minutes actually makes me kind of sad. Are there really this many men in my city not feeling fulfilled in their marriages? Is everyone in middle age leading a life of quiet desperation? Or are they like me, mostly satisfied, but briefly wanting just a snippet of the excitement from their youth back? Or is that sad, too?

  Plus, looking at these pictures seems useless. Yes, some of these men are very attractive. But none of the pics give even the smallest hint of chemistry.

  And chemistry is everything. Did I notice Carlos from across the room at my friend’s party? Of course. The term Handsome as Fuck may not have been around back then, but it would have described him to a T. Glowing, poreless, tan skin. He played baseball back in college, so you can imagine the body. Way better than mine.

  But that’s not how he got me. The reason I fell for him immediately was because he made a joke to a mutual friend that made me burst out laughing. Then we talked about a book he was reading by a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist. At some point, he looked at my plastic wine glass and asked if he could get me another drink, and if I wanted him to make me a plate from the food table.

  At that point, he seemed perfect. But a former athlete being emotionally available? As if. I decided I would just use him for sex that night.

  Which I promptly told him (in a joking way) as he came back to me with a paper plate full of nachos, and a clear plastic glass filled with wine. “Well, I won’t say no to that. I’m not blind," he had said at the time. “But can I ask why having dinner with me would be so…”

  “Horrific?” I interrupted. “Deflating? Ego blasting? Because dating sucks. And I am soooo done with it.”

  We then got stood around agreeing that dating sucks, and trading bad date stories.

  And then… and I remember this moment like it just happened earlier tonight. This silly old disco song, Ring My Bell by Anita Ward, came through the backyard speakers. I didn’t even much like the song; her voice is a little screechy. But I started moving my shoulders to it while we talked. Carlos noticed my shoulders, looked me directly in the eye, and grinned as he raised his hands above his head to dance. I think I laughed. It was so unexpected and charming. No straight man I knew ever danced in public.

  Carlos spontaneously took my hand in his, slipped his arm around my waist, and danced me around my friend’s backyard. And I knew at that moment, I was a goner.

  How do you feel that kind of chemistry from a 2”x3” dating site picture?

  But man, I want that feeling back. The way my breath caught when he donuted his arm around my waist unexpectedly. I haven’t felt like that in so long. It’s almost like the memory of it plays in my head like I’m watching a movie of me as a character feeling that way, instead of actually feeling that way.

  Maybe if I talk to one of these guys, I’ll feel that adrenaline kick I’m craving. I decide to focus on my profile.

  The site suggests I put up a photo, then gives me suggestions for what I can do to disguise myself in the photo. Among the suggestions: a masquerade mask. How original. 1. What’s the point of putting up my picture if I’m disguising myself? 2. 50 Shades has ruined masquerade masks for the rest of us.

  I move on to the personality questionnaire. Which just makes me feel self conscious and weird. One list asks me what I’m comfortable with physically: Kissing (yes), cuddling (of course), bubble baths for two (Now, you’ve just become a clichéd erotic novel). But some of the questions? Yikes! Although I suppose one could argue there are things one is absolutely not comfortable with or has ever even thought about… then when the right guy comes
along, suddenly most bets are off.

  I sigh, embarrassed by my prudishness, even in the security and anonymity of my own home. My friend Vanessa would have no problem with a questionnaire like this. She sees sex as playtime. Doesn’t understand why anyone feels weird talking about it or trying something new. There’s never any judgment with her.

  So little judgment, this morning I summoned up my nerve and emailed her to ask if she could recommend any swingers’ parties, or give me any advice for this new stage of Carlos’ and my marriage.

  Wondering if she’s written me back, I get off of the site, and check my email. She has!

  To: Zoe Reyes

  From: Vanessa Moulin

  Re: Question of an intimate nature.

  Wow. Look at you, all kitten with a whip. I miss one Girls’ Night and I’m completely out of the loop. Anyway, I did a little digging and found out about a party. The group meets on the last Friday of every month, swapping houses and hosts every month. (See what I did there?) I’ll see if I can swing you an invite (My God! I’m on fire!), although I may have to lie and say I occasionally guest star in a triumvirate. (Ha! As if! No offense.)

  And speaking of swinging, see you Saturday? I can’t believe Lauren is making a bunch of middle-aged women learn to trapeze. Wanna grab a drink afterwards if we haven’t given ourselves whiplash (or maybe because we have?).

  xoxo,

  Vanessa

  P.S. So, is this on the down low or can I talk to the other ladies?

  Success! I quickly write back:

  Thank you! As of now, I think we’ll be more comfortable at the party on our own. But now that I’m actually moving forward with this idea, I’m a little scared (is that good?) So maybe I’ll beg you to come at the last second.

  And no, please don’t tell anyone. I don’t know if this is out there yet or not, but Michelle and Steve are separating because he cheated

  I immediately delete that last sentence. Not my news to tell. Instead I finish with…

  Would love to get a drink Saturday. The trapeze is yet another thing in my life that I’m both looking forward to, yet terrified of.