If They Won’t Play You in Chicago

Today S. and I went out for lunch. She was a wreck. Her husband, whom she is divorcing, went to Cabo with his new girlfriend and she learned of the trip, of the girlfriend, accidentally, through a third party. S. was riven with sudden, unexpected, jealousy. He called her to tell her he wants to still be her friend. I mentioned how, after leaving me, M. had still wanted to be friends — ‘I miss hearing your opinions on politics.’ She told me that I should have said, “My opinion on politics is this: If you were President, you’d be a prick President. If you were made Congressman, you’d be ‘that prick Congressman’.”

Her feeling of violation is familiar. So is her anger with herself. Intellectually, she knows she’s better than he; that he was lucky she married him. Hell, he was lucky she ever even spoke to him. Still, I remember what it’s like to have one’s emotions betray the intellect; what it’s like to find one’s brain and heart devouring one another, trying to track down a rational reason for that feeling of betrayal when you already thought you knew what an asshole your betrayer really is.

Later I spent the afternoon and evening working on applications to get out of town and to move on. I think, for the both of us, this song’s chorus fits the spirit of today’s mood:

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