Marriage Lessons
Bedroom, Blanket Bingo
My Thirty-five years of messy, sticky love
My husband and I have been married for a long time — through the Gulf War, the Los Angeles Riots, the O.J. Simpson Trial, the September 11 Attacks, the War on Terror, the COVID-19 Pandemic, the Black Lives Matter Protests, the Capitol insurrection, and countless mass shootings.
Oh, it’s been a historical 35-year-hold-on-for-dear-life wild ride.
We’ve weathered many big events together, experiencing both triumphs and tragedies. Moments of national unity. Moments of division. Moments of hope. Moments of despair. Then there are those personal moments of birth, death, miscarriages, life goings on. A couple turned family of five daughters, then five sons-in-law, then six grandchildren and counting — trying to keep it afloat amidst this messy thing called life.
So yes, we’re that couple bobbing up and down in the ocean, holding on through the crests and troughs, the push and pull, the pressure and friction of life’s crazy currents. It’s not easy. There have been many times when I just wanted to let go and float away in another direction. We’re buoyed together, though. I’d be lost without him.
I suppose we are meant to bob up and down and be that floating Lighthouse for our children to see us and know we are there in case they need some navigation to help them stay on course and steer clear of potential dangers. Meant to flash warning lights, show them their moral reference point, guide them to make corrections, and get back on track to their intended destination.
Maybe this is our purpose now, as purpose does change as we age. Romance, domesticity, work, children — over in a whirl of a chipped-painted pony-up-and-down carousel ride hanging on at the end of a pier after a hurricane.
Up and down. Down and Up. Give and Take. Take and Take. Give and Give. I am he, and he is she, and we are still together. “Goo goo a joob.”
Our bedding tells our true story—the undercurrents of hunky-dory. Every evening, it is neatly arranged, smooth, and wrinkle-free, snugly tucked around the mattress. The comforter and toasty blanket are spread evenly over the bed—a pleasant invitation to end the day.
Then night happens, and the tug of war begins. In our sleep, we push and pull, yank on the covers, twist and turn for territorial expansion. All domestic propriety is gone, out the window. There is no WE; there is me and my comfort, my frozen toes, my cold shoulder. It’s survival.
War on, baby!
It’s a 400-thread count battlefield, the winner determined at sunrise when the evidence reveals the horrors of domesticity — twisted sheets, pillows tossed overboard, blankets clumped up into a wrecking ball. There is no victor, no surrender. Just me, the morning mop-up crew, to put it back together for the next evening’s battle.
Messy, Sticky Love
Our marriage is messy and needs to be tended to and evened out on a daily basis. To pretend otherwise is naive. We aren’t living in a Pottery Barn showroom where nothing gets touched by real life. Oh no. Our bedroom resembles a Jackson Pollock painting after a particularly wild night of living and loving hard, struggling through every conflict and compromise, laughing and crying until there are no more tears left.
Such is marriage—something not meant for the perfectionist. No, it’s a cluttered nightstand of random items, a stained carpet from spilled wine, an indented mattress from two intimate bodies tossing and turning—a story of loving in a shared space. It’s not perfect; it’s worn in like an old pair of ratty slippers and sticky like a toddler’s car seat in the family mini-van.
We’re like that brand new Pulitzer award-winning book you gave to your cousin to read and get back a couple of weeks later with dog-eared pages covered in coffee smudges, and marginalia scribbled in the margins.
It’s been used, read page by page. There’s no hiding the intimacy of a good read.
So maybe our nuptial bed is a flawed, disheveled mess. But, here’s the rub, our secret — our bed is unmovable — its roots run 35 years deep into the soil. Like Odysseus and Penelope’s bed in the Odyssey. No, it’s not carved from the trunk of a living olive tree. Nothing like that. (It would be cool though.) It, our bed, is rooted though deep in commitment amidst the whacky world of betrayal and uncertainty that surrounds most marriages these days. Double that since we live in Los Angeles, the city of fallen marriages.
Our nuptial bed is anchored down, stuck in place, and ain’t going nowhere anytime soon. Unless . . . of course . . . there is a colossal earthquake, a devastating mudslide, or a torrential flood. It is a California King, after all. Even if we do shake, rattle, and roll, get cacked in the mud, or washed away by an atmospheric river — we are committed to weathering through it all.
Till death do us part.
Mary Cappelli is a domestic lifer, living and loving one day at a time. She celebrates 35 years of marriage and 38 years of togetherness this month.