Prologue
My Husband Left Me for the Rowing Machine
Fourteen Months Ago
Years from now,when I think back to the moment my husband left me for my rowing machine, I hope I forget I was holding the penis straw.
If I’d known where the conversation was headed, I might’ve set it down. He was just being so casual about the whole thing, explaining that he was ending our marriage the way one might mention a particularly filling soup they’d had for lunch.
When he’d first said the words “I’m leaving,” I hadn’t believed him.
“Is this a prank?” I’d asked. Or maybe I’d only thought it, which is absurd because Rich doesn’t “believe” in pranks the way other people don’t “believe” in social media or fabric softener. But what other explanation could there be? This wasn’t supposed to go this way. Rich isn’t this kind of man. We aren’t supposed to be this kind of couple.
But this is real. He’s leaving me for a rowing machine, or—rather—the new lease on life it represents. And I’m left holding the phallic party straw.
“Life is a current, Charley,” he’s telling me as he scrambles around our (former) marital bedroom. “We can’t fight it. If wedrag our oars in the water, too scared of where we might go, we won’t stand still, but drift off course from our destiny.”
“Off course from our destiny,” I repeat as though he’ll hear how ridiculous he sounds if I manually rewind the tape. But how else should I respond to the motivational gobbledygook he’s parroting back from this morning’s Sunrise EDM Bootcamp? How should I react when the man I chose to build a life with decides to dismantle it brick by brick because a fitness influencer named Evian reminded him of the mere possibility ofmore? The idea of someone,anyone, better than me.
I pinch the straw penis between my forefinger and thumb. “We were supposed to finishOppenheimertonight.” I’m blatantly bargaining at this point.
He does his stiff-shouldered inhale thing. As a confrontation-averse Midwesterner, it’s the closest he gets to an eye roll.
The vibration of the phone in my pants pocket interrupts Rich’s performative exhale and cuts into the gesture’s overall effectiveness. The tiny buzz wears out his last shred of patience and empathy for me as the woman he’s actively abandoning based on his tenuous interpretation of scripted exercise affirmations.
“Get it. It might be work,” he dares me. Is that what this apparent midlife crisis isreallyabout?
I take the bait and check my phone—it very well could be work—but I send the call to voicemail when I see it’s my sister, Laurel.
“What’s so wrong with caring about my job?”
“You hate your job, Charley.”
“Everyone hates their job.”
“And still, you love it more than me.” He lays the statement down like a pair of twos he thinks will win him the game. Alittle dark brown curl falls onto his forehead. His Clark Kent curl. I liked that curl. Now I hate it. “We’ve only been married less than a year, and we’re already glorified roommates. How long are we supposed to go through the motions?” he asks.
The motions.The words sear into my skin. The way he says it, it’s almost as though we’re partners—active participants in a ruse to fool our friends, our families, and the state of Minnesota. Only I didn’t know we were going through the motions. I thought we were in love.
Sure, we aren’t a passionate couple, but we’re something better: Stable. Compatible. We want similar lives and like the same shows.Someof the same shows. Notallthe same shows. I can’t invest in everyWalking Deadspin-off AMC feels compelled to produce, but it’s important to have separate interests.
Passion is unpredictable. Volatile. Passionate people are driven by impulses and whims. Rich has never doneanythingon a whim. At dinner, he refuses to let Rock, Paper, Scissors determine whose AmEx should get the rewards points, because it’s an “unsophisticated game of chance.” Suddenly he’s craving enthusiasm and spontaneity? A man whose preferred hobby is meal prep?
“Can you honestly tell me you loved me? Even in the beginning?” he asks me.
I shake my head, tamping down the hot frustration burning beneath my ears. “That’s not how love works.” I know what it feels like to be collateral damage to someone’s doomed love story. I’ve never wanted that. I want what Rich and I have. The love of a nice, steady man that starts as a tiny seed and grows on you like vines. Though I suppose vines have a way of rotting the wood they wrap around—an insignificant piece of plant trivia that is now exceedingly relevant.
“It should be,” he says, almost kind. Optimistic. Delusional. “Don’t you want that too? Don’t you want someone you can’t live without? Someone you have to text to tell them you love them, even if they’re only in the other room?”
“You’re leaving me because I don’t text you when you’re in the other room? I can text you more!”
“But we neverwantto.” Rich stands up straighter, emboldened by whatever he’s about to say next. “It’s time for me to go off on my own adventures. Like your friend Nathan—though I doubt I’ll be so performative about it.”
“Who’s Nathan?” I ask, genuinely confused.
He shrugs. “Your shoeless friend. The one who lives in his car.”
It takes me a second to connect the dots. “Do you mean Ethan?” I cross my arms, defensive. What makes him thinknowis the appropriate time to bring up the best friend I lost because my husband couldn’t get along with him? “Ethan lives in avan,” I bite out as the kindling of rage catches fire under my skin. Looks like I’m entering the anger phase of mourning this relationship with every loud, open-mouthed breath from Rich’s punchable, congested face. Now that he’s leaving me, I can finally take issue with the way he refuses to use his allergy medication and then complains about every symptom as though he’s being personally victimized by the planet without recourse.
