This Elusive Thing Called Marriage

Tipper and Al Gore are calling it quits. The quintessential political couple, who have publicly weathered some of life's most turbulent storms and boasted in a co-written book that they were 'joined at the heart,' is getting a divorce. Regardless of the reason behind the reason, which is none of our business, theirs is a cautionary tale. If the Gores, who unabashedly demonstrated tasteful public displays of affection, can say they have grown apart, what does that mean for the rest of us?

I can remember a Wise Woman telling me, shortly after I became engaged 30 years ago, that marriage was hard work. Hah! I thought. We're going to be different. It will come easy. What work? I was, after all, in the throes of a hormonal and pheromonal high, powered solely by adrenalin, considering that I neither ate nor slept.

But, in fact, my marriage has been, shall we say, a series of leaps from frying pan to fire. I've been singed around the edges a time or two, but not yet burned to a crisp. I suspect that if the singeing moves to second or third degree burns, perhaps I will consider joining the ranks of the Gores.

That is not to say, I will admit, that I have not contemplated divorce. It has been a little more to the forefront of my mind in this last year, post-leap. We moved from a little unincorporated community to a 29-acre farm in the middle of nowhere. Lest you doubt how much inside nowhere I am, consider this: 10 miles to the nearest convenience store; 11 miles to a supermarket or post office. I can't say that I was browbeaten into it; my name is at the top of the paperwork. What I can say, however, is that I was not prepared for the isolation or the distances I have to travel to get back to my version of civilization.

Yet, when I contemplate my fantasy life of a with-it middle-aged Manhattanite, I realize that I'm too old to get a job that pays me well enough to buy a half-million dollar apartment in Manhattan. And then, when I think about the numbers, I also think about what we paid for our 29 acres, and, well, Manhattan is terrific, but the real estate, comparatively speaking, is overpriced.

It is now about 6:30, and I expect my husband will come into the house in the next half an hour. We'll find "the clicker," (our term for the TV remote control) and put the TV on "Jeopardy." Dinner will be in the oven. We'll sit down and share a meal, watch the game and reconnect after our day apart. We'll probably apologize again for the silly argument we had earlier, and after 30 years of marriage, yes, we still do argue, and talk about whatever we think we need to discuss. We relish the time together because, after rearing four children (as did the Gores), we feel we have earned this special intimacy that comes from three decades of shared experiences. If we continue our conversation from last night, it may be about the Gores again. Whatever happened to them is a wake-up call to each and every married couple, regardless of how secure we feel in our respective marriages. No one is immune from the tug of individuality, and this elusive thing called marriage is a fragile thread that is too easily broken.