Unlike Grandma or Tia Lupie, my mother is docile in nature. She is not prone to violence or physical actions. Instead she
used her words until my father finally admitted that, yes, he had a desire for my aunt. I realize that if anyone had a right to
leave their man, it was my mother. But she did not. Instead, she forced my father to join her in the unconventional solution
known as therapy.
Therapy, Grandma always said, was for the weak. It was unheard of for family to air their dirty laundry to a stranger, let
alone a gringo stranger with a paper declaring him an expert. Despite her protests, my family often relies on therapy as a
solution.
This past week, as I come to grips with the infidelity of my spouse of eight years, I wonder how my mother was able to handle
the ultimate betrayal of her husband. My inherited intuitions led me to suspect the affair that my mate was having with a
woman on the east coast. Just like the situation with my father, I was told tales until I, too, began to doubt my own sanity.
Mirroring my father’s actions, my partner never consummated her longing for another, but she is like Jimmy Carter who,
“lusted in his heart,” although unlike Carter, she longs to carry it into a physical affair.
As I hear the litany of praise for a woman my partner has never met, I feel my soul crying endless tears. The casual disregard
for eight years of shared laughter, happiness and life challenges have left a deep chasm of pain. When I think of the gut
wrenching grief that I feel, I wonder how my mother made it through the same emotions that were magnified because the other
woman was not only innocent, but her own sister. If Grandma visited me today from the afterlife, her spirit would be pointing
toward the rolling pin, the catchall solution to the infidelity of the heart. Tia Lupie would probably loan me her Saturday night
“cumbia” stilettos, while my mother would point me in the direction of the Christian therapist who saved her own marriage.
Some have told me that this is a seven year itch, a catch phrase that is meant to explain away the boredom that one person in
the union has when real life replaces the romantic idealism of blissful harmony. Another friend told me that her own husband
did the same thing when he was my partner’s age, and I’m reminded that my father had his own bout of insanity for my aunt
when he was my partner’s age. Yet there are others who tell me to move on, to find someone worthy of me. Yet that still
small voice in my head shows me the virtues of the woman with whom I promised, eight years ago, to spend the rest of my
life. I see both her beauty and the character flaws that cling to her psyche like warts. I remember the intelligence and creative
talents that first attracted me to her. And I find myself unwilling to so casually toss aside the years of love, dreams, laughter
and pain that we have shared. Perhaps if Grandma’s spirit is watching me now, she might find it in her heart to forgive her
granddaughter who has chosen to air her dirty laundry to a “gringo” therapist rather than resort to the solution that she took
those many years ago. Regardless of where my path leads me, perhaps this small step will help me to mend and piece back
together the fragile armor around my heart.
Epilogue
I couldn’t leave this story with such a bleak tone so I decided to add a tidbit that occurred a few days after I wrote this story.
I finally had the opportunity to communicate directly with the pinche pendeja through emails this morning, and although I
thought I would have a great deal of anger and hostility toward her, another emotion rose up in me. I realized after replying to
her email that a sudden sadness engulfed me, but not for me, for her. The lead weight that was lodged in the pit of my
stomach ever since learning of my partner’s infidelity with a stranger suddenly vanished. The painful gravity that was holding
me down lifted from my shoulders, and I felt liberated from all of the feelings of insecurity, anger, betrayal and sadness lodged
within me for the past week.
I realized that this woman is truly a sad character. Yes, she may have things that I do not have, a career, an excellent job title,
a home, children, a few published books and, by all appearances, the American Dream of having a stable family, but this is all
an illusion. Her personal life is chaotic, her sanity is unstable, her love life in the real world with her own wife is miserable and
she lacks the basic essence of self esteem to pull herself out of the grips of her misery. She claims that her wife of three years
is a psychotic, “fragile” person which contradicts the coherent nature that I’ve seen in her wife. I came to the realization that
the pinche pendeja is, to put it bluntly, the poster child for the stereotypical “fucked up” lesbian that we either have been
(including myself) before therapy, have met, or have befriended in our lives.
I find it truly sad to realize that the pinche pendeja’s only shining moment in life is the fictional fantasy love that she has formed
with a woman, my partner, whom she has never met. Once the misery and the temporary crushing of my own self esteem
vanished, I felt a smile cross my face, and I realized that in terms of mental health and stability, I far exceeded the pinche
pendeja by leaps and bounds. If an analogy could be formed that best describes this situation I now find myself in, I am a
Mercedes S65 AMG, and she is a Ford Pinto. It suddenly dawned on me that if my partner decides to leave me for this
online love whom she has never met, she will be trading down - a Mercedes for a Pinto.
Now there is no sadness in me. I am not saddened by the situation that has transpired because I know that, regardless of
what happens in the future, I will be like all of the women in my family who have landed on their feet. I will survive. And as
one of my best male friends said to me, “Everyone wants to drive a Mercedes, but no one wants to be seen with a Pinto!”
I know that my life will be alright no matter what happens. The only words of warning I gave to my partner after revealing this
epiphany are that should she decide to trade down, I do not want to get a phone call from her later about the oil leak on her
driveway or that the engine exploded when it was rear-ended because she is the one who traded a sane and healthy
Mercedes for a Pinto who needs an awful lot of work. For the first time since this fiasco occurred, she and I were able to
share a laugh together, which is always a good thing.
