My husband and I have been together for 24 years. Married for 17 of them. There have been incredible highs and spiraling lows. We’ve had two nickels to our name and stretches of great bounty. Some years go by when we hardly see each other. Which is when things usually come to a head and we start making announcements like, “I’m done!” or “Maybe we should just end it.” Of course, we both well know the subtext beneath our threats, that what we’re really trying to say is: “Please, can we stop and reconnect?” Marriage is fragile. Something I used to take for granted. An institution I now deeply respect.
The reason we’ve likely stayed together for as long as we have is that we share the same values. Strip away all the day-to-day bullshit–our personalities and points of view–and underneath it all, we are two people who believe in the same things, one which is compassion. Compassion is where our relationship began, and where we return to when things get strained. It is the foundation of our partnership and has, as a result, fostered a deep sense of trust in both of us. That said, I am a Scorpio woman. Meaning that, despite my knowing better, jealousy (when it comes to romance) courses through my veins. I almost don’t recognize myself when the venom takes hold. I go dark. Silent. Lethal. And while this side of me has laid good and dormant for quite some time, she unexpectedly woke up the other day.
I’ll set the scene. It’s approximately 5:20pm on a Sunday afternoon. My husband and I are heading to Whole Foods to shop and stock up the house for the week, a chore we mutually despise. The mood in the car is a little stressed. He’s driving too fast, trying to beat down his angst over the anticipation of Monday morning. I’m rambling on about some houses I just saw in our rapidly over-developing neighborhood, debating whether we should stay or sell. We have 55 minutes to shop, hit Trader Joes, and get home. Because of the time constraint, when we arrive at Whole Foods we divide the list, each of us heading in a different direction.
As I make my way to the refrigerated lettuces and my husband veers left to pick out some Honeycrisp apples, I notice my beloved glancing over at a woman. His look is deliberate, the same way we all give someone a second glance. My stomach drops and a wave of insecurity punches me in the gut. She is taller than me. Fifteen years younger than me. But she is also very familiar. Same texture and color of hair. Same cheekbones. The same look, really: ponytail, make-up free face, leggings, runners. She could be a younger version of myself. Actually, she is a younger version of myself. And that’s what makes me panic. For all my fits of jealousy over the past two and a half decades, I’ve never felt the intensity of this one. I’ve never experienced the threat of being replaced by someone younger and possibly better, nor have I so bluntly recognized that my own bloom has started to fade.
This face-off of old versus young isn’t new to me. I’ve written plays about characters confronting their younger-selves. In one of them, 30-year-old Cynthia tries to throw Cyndi (her 20-something self) out of her therapy session after she spontaneously shows up to stir the pot. Cyndi believes that Cynthia has become stodgy and dull in her effort to live responsibly, and tries to lure her back with memories of day drinking and chasing after bands. In another, Marjorie, a woman wanting to become pregnant, attempts to placate Little Girl (her younger-self) who furiously argues that a new baby will kick her and her many needs to the curb. Both stories examine life transitions, like adulthood and motherhood. Both reflect the internal drama I experienced during these periods in my own evolution. And both speak to jealousy: that threatening discomfort we face when someone we love chooses to move on.
However, moving on is not what’s on my mind as I stand sucker-punched in the produce section of Whole Foods while staring my younger-self in the face. Instead of shaking her off as I’ve done before, so that my older-self can make room for a brand new, even-better life chapter, all I want to do is grab hold of her Lululemon leg and beg, “Please, don’t go just yet. Can’t you hang around this party for a little longer? Call up some friends, bring some estrogen? We’ll have a good time, really. I promise.” But the words don’t leave my mouth and she moves on. Off to the meat aisle with her shopping list and the confidence of a woman in the prime of her life. Oblivious to me, and the envy roiling through my veins.
After a substantial silent treatment, I ask my husband about the look. Time has passed, and he hasn’t a clue of what I’m talking about. But he sees my jealousy and, knowing her well, understands that there is no right answer. That it is best to duck and cover. So we sit in the car outside our house allowing the frozen blueberries and blood orange mochis to melt in our shopping bags. I make some desperate threats even though I know this isn’t about him. Or her. This is about my vanity. The youthfulness I see falling away. And that superficial, hard-to-swallow pill of what it looks like to grow old. It takes a while, but eventually I feel myself return to the place where we began. At which point one of us says, “Can’t we just stop and reconnect?” Which we do.
