Door Swapping: Let’s Make a Deal?
An experiment in retrospection
I read a book once about a young man mourning his wife’s death. As I recall, she’d been killed in a car accident; in any event, her husband was, naturally, devastated.
Eventually, of course, he had to eat, sleep, and otherwise negotiate the demands of his day. Like it or not — he did not — he was obliged to take front and center stage, lone star in this Great Tragedy.
His audience was in awe of his brave performance — day after day, he admirably acted the part of a functioning adult. He was surrounded by supporting players — most notably, a cast of sympathetic women.
Fast forward a year or so: he feels drawn to one of these sympathetic women, and — out of loyalty to the memory of his wife — fiercely fights his feelings, to no avail.
Despite his delight — rather, because of his delight — with this woman he is tormented by this thought: Does this mean that I will pass — have I already passed! — the point of no return? That is, that point at which I wouldn’t trade my life as it is now for what it was then?
The intriguing question indeed! I have many times conducted similar thought experiments, always with ambiguous results. Unlike the erstwhile happily married widower in the story, I got divorced after a miserable marriage, so I’ve had to modify the parameters of my experiment.
Obviously, I wouldn’t trade my life now for my life then — the question I ask myself is: Would I trade my life as it is now for what I wish it had been then?
The people I most envy are not the rich, the famous, the beautiful, the talented — but rather those who’ve achieved what is, to me, the ultimate achievement: a happy marriage.
Let’s suppose that forty years ago I could have established — and sustained to this day — a happy marriage in exchange for my life as it is now. My life as it is now is wonderful in every possible way: I’ve got icing on the frosting on my cake, and a cherry on top of that.
That said, a failed marriage is excruciating both during its duration and in its aftermath; the pain abates with time, but the demoralization lingers, a chronic ache that flares up in the face of in-my-face exhibitions of marital happiness.
I’m not referring here to ostentatious displays — likely to be insincere — but to genuine, quiet contentment that, paradoxically, shouts to my sensitive ears: What a wonderful life!
Touché. Duly noted. And duly envied. Would I make a trade? The moot question, of course. And on that brilliant note, I shall sign off and enjoy my own wonderful life.
