An Ongoing Affair with a Jeep

One chilly December morning seven years ago, I went for a walk with my mother. We casually discussed the morning news, Diane Sawyer’s new haircut, and my crazy uncle’s latest attempts to open his own winery. He had sent my parents a bottle of his port -- Pork's Port -- that had exploded in their kitchen, permanently staining their pickled wood cabinets. Then, after a long and thoughtful pause, Mom mentioned that she had met my husband’s new assistant. Turning sideways to face me, she grabbed my arm and said, “She’s cute, and she’s very thin.” She then proceeded to tell me I had better “watch it,” because she suspected he was having an affair.

At the conclusion of our walk, she asked me to come inside because she had a gift for me. And this is not a lie: the woman handed me a diet and exercise book titled Look Great Naked. The implication, of course, was that if my husband was having an affair, I could fix the problem by losing fifteen pounds.

I was devastated. My mom thought my husband was cheating, and she had also just called me fat.

Four months later, I found myself in a twelve by twelve room of a rehab facility and listened as my husband read aloud the following statement, written in his own hand:

“I have struggled quite a bit with alcohol the past year, but what you don’t know is my behaviors that led to my drinking. Last summer, I became involved in an affair with a coworker. This affair has been ongoing and very difficult for me to break off, even after repeated attempts. The magnitude of this addictive relationship is such that I have even had contact with this person while in rehab.”

I heard nothing in this statement after he admitted to an “ongoing affair with a co-worker."

“Ongoing affair with a co-worker.”

Ongoing affair with a co-worker.

Ongoing affair with a co-worker.

What does “ongoing” mean? Is it still going on?

I knew who the co-worker was. I’d known it when my mom handed me the book about looking great naked. Deep down, I’d known. And now, on top of everything else, I felt stupid for not “knowing” until he confessed. In that moment, I felt as if I would never, ever be able to breathe again.

I also felt incredibly fat. That day, I quit eating. I lost seventeen pounds in one month by illogically reasoning that if Mom was right, I could win him back by losing weight.

And I began playing mind games with myself, games that I had no hope of winning. For instance, the “Co-worker” drove a black Jeep. I’d never paid much attention to Jeeps, but suddenly every other car on the road was a damn black Jeep. Every time I spotted one, my heart began pounding, and I suffered a slight panic attack. Every black Jeep was her. She’s on her way to see my husband. No! She’s following me. And I’m half-crazy, so they’ll get my kids. That bitch is going to steal my kids!

That affair eventually ended, but it was followed by several more, the most ridiculous of which was with a twenty-seven-year-old shot girl he met in a strip club. The great irony is that I finally looked really, really great naked, what with all the weight loss, but he kept right on cheating.

I finally mustered the strength to stand up for myself, realizing it wasn’t anything about me – my appearance, my flaws, my imperfections, even my crazy ideas about what kind of cars his lovers drove – that caused him to cheat. After several excruciating years of thinking I could fix him by fixing myself, I realized his affairs weren’t about me. And that’s when I filed for divorce.

My insane aversion to Jeeps lasted for nearly four years, though, until the day it dawned on me that I’d always liked Jeeps; in fact, I’d liked the “Co-worker’s” Jeep before I’d discovered my husband was sleeping with her. So the Jeep wasn’t the problem. It was the meaning I attached to her Jeep – and eventually all other Jeeps – that caused my pain. Further, if I could attach new meaning to Jeeps, and then to his affair, and even to the Look Great Naked book, I could change how I felt about them and, perhaps, even grow from those experiences. Confirmation that I was on the right track came when I discovered the following poem by the Sufi poet Rumi:

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

Some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

Who violently sweep your house

Empty of its furniture,

Still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

Black Jeep was doing me a favor all along; I just hadn’t been able to see it. At that moment, I decided that, rather than cringing every time I saw a Jeep, I would say to myself, “It’s clearing me out for some new delight.” Over and over, Jeep after Jeep, I repeated the new mantra: “Clearing me out for some new delight.” Eventually, I even began to look for Jeeps, to search them out, like every Jeep I spotted was a clue that something good was just around the corner.

In fact, I’m secretly hoping that when my new delight shows up, he’ll be driving a Jeep.

First Lady of Rehab

What do politicians and addicts have in common?

The easiest answer is that with both, you know they’re lying if their lips are moving.

Another quirk the two share is the ability to blame everyone else for their mistakes, their favorite target often being the people they’ve screwed.

Finally, both subsets of the larger group affectionately titled “Vile Human Beings” can claim my ex-husband as a member. While he was in rehab, he was elected Mayor.

As in Mayor of Rehab. Not exactly something you’d want on your resume, I wouldn’t think, but as a politician he can probably twist it into something useful. “Ran for and won political office in small Arizona community” perhaps. It could get him added to some “Who’s Who” list anyway.

Yes, for $35,000, you, too, can spend thirty days in the desert conning a counselor into believing you’re the best thing since lubricated condoms. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason, the folks out there in Arizona thought it helpful to both the staff and the inmates to have a go-between, someone who could speak for the entire community of addicts. And some staff sucker nominated him.

I’m pretty sure that up until that time, the official duties of the Mayor of Rehab had primarily been more symbolic in nature – making proclamations like “We’re all Perfect in our Imperfections!” to the cheers of the entire cafeteria during Thursday dinner; kissing the babies who come to see their drug-addled mommies on visitation Sundays; and of course, being presented the key to the commune. But when my husband was voted Mayor, he took that job seriously. He actually went to work for his peers.

For example, the center has Movie Night once a week. The movies must be pre-approved and, ideally, affirm the values of the rehab center. Think Clean and Sober with Michael Keaton or When a Man Loves a Woman with Meg Ryan. No sex, as it might stimulate the sex addicts. No movie with anorexic actresses, as that might stress the patients with eating disorders. No alcohol, except if it is portrayed in a “this is poison, it will kill you” light. No violence; you never know what the rage-aholics will do. In other words, Movie Night choices are pretty much limited to those I’ve already mentioned plus Mulan (strong feminine character who stands up for herself while honoring her ancestors – good rehab material) and Beethoven (pets are healing, but remember that the only live thing an addict should be responsible for the first year after treatment is a plant).

Obviously looking out for his constituents, the Mayor decided that the television used for Movie Night was pitifully small. So he called his parents and directed them to ship his $9,000 video projector to Arizona for the viewing pleasure of all the addicts. And that’s not all.

He didn’t like the movie choices either. So his parents sent some movies along with the projector. The movies were immediately confiscated because they did not reflect the values of the treatment facility. He called me to complain.

“But you’re only there a few more days,” I said, after hearing the story. “Just let it go.”

“I’m not letting it go. They can’t ban my movies because of language because they allow bad language in the group sessions. They believe it’s a way of expressing your true feelings. My movies don’t have any graphic sex, no nudity, and hell, people in here had better get used to seeing a drink without needing to have one. That’s the real world. I’m so sick of the hypocritical bullshit in the place, and I’m about to expose it.”

Lawyerlike, he took his case all the way to the top. And when the man who owns and directs the treatment facility told him no, he took his case to the inmates. They could stage an uprising or a sit-in like the center had never seen before. They could boycott breakfast or pull a Gandhi, refusing to eat until they were allowed to watch what they wanted (the eating disorder patients could be counted on for this part of the demonstration). In fact, it wasn’t jail; anyone could leave at any time. They could all just up and walk out. Goddammit, they were the customers, and they were right!

That’s basically what he told the director of the treatment center where he was paying $35,000 to be treated for addiction – that he was the customer, and he was right, and if they didn’t let him watch the movie he wanted to watch, then he would leave.

Incredibly, the center gave in, and he got his way.

Even more amazing is that it became his rehab story. In the weeks after he got home, as friends and family welcomed him back, hoping he was intent on being a loving husband and father, what did he report about his time in Arizona? The Movie Night Story. He didn’t talk about how he faced the horror of losing his family and decided to end his affair. He didn’t talk about realizing that staying out all night drinking was not only bad for his health but also devastating to a wife who loved him and sat up all night fearful he wouldn’t make it back.

I, for one, could totally understand the center’s insistence that The Godfather was inappropriate viewing material for the rehabilitation of alcoholics, sex addicts, and gamblers. Hell, that director probably capitulated because he was terrified he’d wake up to find the decapitated head of his cat Fluffy in bed with him the next morning. Reymondo, the patient who was a high-ranking Central American diplomat had some pretty good connections, after all.

I sat listening to him tell the story over and over, and I began to wonder if that was all that he took away from his month in rehab.

If so, I can think of about 267 better ways to spend $35,000. For $35,000, I could buy a fishing lure business on Ebay or a custom portrait of the children by the same artist who painted Jimmy Carter’s presidential portrait, or, hell, half a Hummer. Ten years from now, I’d conceivably still have any of those things. But I’ve got a bad feeling that he’s got nothing to show for that $35,000. He would have been better off spending that money on campaign pencils – “Dick for Mayor of Rehab.” Pencils last a long, long time.

Given that he kept his campaign promises and enjoyed a high popularity rating in his tenure as Mayor, I’m sure he would have been elected to a second term if he’d chosen to extend his time at the facility. Looking back, that probably would have been good for everyone.