My Life=Not a Bestseller

I keep thinking about the bestseller "Eat, Pray, Love". Two Christmases ago I received a grand total of 3 copies. Clearly the well-intentioned givers (I remember one was from Jamie, possibly one was from Tim, the third I cannot recall...) knew my taste in books and had thoughtfully chosen one with my likes and interests in mind. I knew of the book and was looking forward to delving into it. But, I never made it beyond the first few chapters. Somewhere near the beginning, the author tells of her realization, as she lay on the cold, tile floor of her bathroom, that she no longer wanted to be married. I remember reading that and feeling slightly sick. And very, very sad for her husband. And now I think that somewhere very deep in my core, I was worried that Tim was feeling that way.

After that I read a few more chapters and then it would lay, untouched and dusty on my nightstand. I picked it up a few more times and tried to get back into it before finally parking it on the bookshelf. Even then I just couldn't quite stomach her (the author, ) traipsing around India or Italy or wherever the hell she went, chanting with her guru and hanging onto some ridiculous beads. Even then I kept thinking of her husband, forgotten and left behind. Even then.

I wonder if his story parallels my own? My best guess is that his story, like my own would not be filled with the tales of bestselling material. Travel and food and excitement seem to be a theme in those top ten books. Those are the stories that sell. Worries about feeding my child balanced meals when I don't feel like going to the grocery store, let alone cooking do not exactly seem like the stories of page-turners. Wondering who I might bump into at the pharmacy/coffee shop/shoe store whose mere glance will almost instantly turn me into a weepy, puffy, red mess doesn't seem like something that would do it either. How about calling my work for the umpteenth time to ask for a sub because I need to be at home with my sick child? Nope, I don't think so. People don't want to read about those of us who are left behind and dealing with the day-to-day.

How do you go from "this is the most romantic thing I've every done!" (Tim's comment as we arrived at the hospital to birth Crosby) to "I don't want you/this anymore" two short years later? How? As I see you bop down the street with our son high on your shoulders, suitcase in hand, my heart breaks a little more. I want to be doing this with you. The three of us. Together. I want your hand to be holding mine, not your suitcase.