Episode 29: Till Death Do Us Part

Episode 29: Till Death Do Us Part

Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"

A few weeks ago I read this article about a pair of Buddhist teachers who live as a couple and have taken a vow never to be more than fifteen feet apart. This is apparently more than a little controversial in the world of Buddhist scholarship because among other things, the relationship is being presented as a celibate but intimate partnership between an older man and a young woman who some in the community refer to as a “blonde bombshell.” Now, though your definition of a “bombshell” might differ from someone who has spent twenty years in a monastery, the point is, no one thinks this set up can actually work. The vow applies to their hearts and minds but in particular to their bodies, which means they are literally together all the time.

This Buddhist couple got me to thinking. I mean, the premise sounded horrible and interesting at the same time. The idea of never being able to be more than fifteen feet away from your partner sounds intriguingly atrocious. They even go to the bathroom together (apparently if they’re in an airport one will stand outside the bathroom door to spare the general public) but I stopped peeing in front of guys when Mr. Handsome was three years old and he asked me why I had “wire hair.” (Raoul — the handyman — was in the house when he said this. I was mortified and my handyman couldn’t stop laughing.)

And then Jeffrey returned from West Virginia. I can’t even begin to describe what a mistake that ashram visit was. I think he thought it was supposed to be some kind of Canyon Ranch deal, where you go and have spa treatments and eat really healthy food like pea sprouts and somewhere in there you rediscover who you are. (Or, in Jeffrey’s case, who you are supposed to be since who he is involves prostitutes and getting away from that person was the whole fucking idea.) I assume that’s what the Concubine thought the ashram was for. I mean, she never would have sent her meal ticket to a place that was really hardcore but on his return Jeffrey was unrecognizable. Actually, he was unshaven, driveling and suddenly insistent that he needed to move back in the house with me. “This is imperative for my well being, E,” he said, gazing at me with those basset hound eyes that I think they implant in you when you go into “recovery.” Among other things, this ashram had no electricity or running water. I mean, Jeffrey went in this totally cocky movie producer and came out of it terrified of taking a shower.

Well, I am many things but I am not heartless (plus the Concubine said she’d use her personal shopper to get me an impossible to find pair of Jimmy Choo gladiator sandals) and so I let him — temporarily — come back home. Believe me, there were plenty of conditions (no eating my food, no answering the telephone, no touching my computer or coming NEAR my bedroom, that sort of thing) and of course there was a time stipulation on the whole deal. I mean, basically he was supposed to get over his fear of being in the real world (that’s what the ashram had given him, that and a case of ringworm that had to be dealt with immediately) and then he was going to get the hell back where he belonged. (Where he actually belongs is up for debate, there are many people with many opinions on that one, but you get the general picture.) “You’re crazy, Esme,” said Raoul when I told him what I was doing. “Yeah, well, that goes without saying,” I tell him. “Do you want me to sleep over while he’s here?” he asks. “What, for protection?” I say and he’s all he-man-like and says, “Well, I just want to make sure you’re going to be okay.”

So Jeffrey shows up with his duffle bag and TIVA sandals. The kids don’t know what to make of the whole thing. “What’s wrong with Daddy?” they ask me while he’s sitting out by the pool in the lotus position. “Oh, he’s just meditating,” I tell them, even though I’m not exactly sure what the fuck that even means. In truth, all folded up like that, Jeffrey looks like some kind of half-wilted flower that hasn’t seen the sun in years. “You want something to drink?” I yell out the window. “A Coke, or something?’ “No caffeine allowed!” he sing-songs back at me. Crap. A caffeine celibate? I wonder what I ever saw in him.

Later that night, I’m in my bedroom. It’s off limits, as previously noted, and I’m in bed reading when I look up and there he is. “What are you doing here?!” I growl. “I can’t leave your side,” he tells me, sheepishly. “What?!” I screech (the subdued growl is quickly overtaken by some high notes), “That was never part of the bargain!” “Yeah, well,” he mumbles, “I knew if I told you you’d never agree to any of this. “Any of what?” I say, tightly. “Well, US,” he says, brightly. “You and me on a path to spiritual enlightenment.” “Damn right, I wouldn’t!” I yell. “You’re a hooker monger who told a virgin I slept with a gigolo. Stay away from me.”

Then Jeffrey proceeds to tell me that as part of his repentance or therapy or whatever the hell it is that he can’t actually leave my side. “Are you crazy?!” I bellow. “How am I going to get anything done with you tagging along?” Don’t worry about it,” he says and smiles at me benevolently. “We’re going to confront our imperfections and learn how to live with one another in peace and harmony.”

Well, that’s when I lose it. I’m pretty sure my imperfections have a lot to do with screaming because that’s what I’m doing now. I tell him to leave pronto and he shakes his head sadly and says much as he’d like to he’s taken this vow to stay out of his Mercedes until he’s learned how to better serve the world.

Two seconds later I am on the phone with the Concubine. “I don’t know what happened at that ashram,” I tell her, “But you have to come and get him immediately. He says he’s not leaving until he’s purified his mind.” “Oooh, that’ll take a while, “ says the Concubine, and then admits, albeit guiltily, that she’s not even in town. “Where the hell are you?” I say and she tells me she decided to use this opportunity to go to Miraval Life in Balance for a couple of days.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Miraval, but, unlike the ashram, this place is in fact a spa where people talk to horses and it’s supposed to put you on the path to enlightenment or at the very least, help you lose your ulcer or your acne or your cellulite and at the same time teach you how to deal with your lunatic life partner. “You owe me more than Jimmy Choo gladiators,” I growl (I’m back to the growling) and I hang up the phone.

Jeffrey and I stare at one another. He’s still standing at the door. “Fine,” I spit out. “You can stay for another night, but there’s no way you’re sleeping in my room.” Then I get up in a huff (unfortunately, I’m wearing a Hello Kitty t-shirt which kind of ruins the impact of the moment) and I slam the door. (Luckily, Roo and Mr. Handsome are sound sleepers. Well, there’s that, and the fact that they each consumed so much crap at dinner — this, while Jeffrey was eating some soy concoction he called, “seitan,” — that they are both in sugar-induced comas.)

When I wake up the next morning, the sun is streaming in my window. It’s such a beautiful day that I forget everything that happened the night before. I shower, put on one of my favorite H & M sun dresses and then practically fall flat on my face in the hall outside my bedroom because my ashram-addled, soon-to-be-ex-husband is sleeping in the fetal position on the floor.

“Shit,” I say to no one in particular. He opens one sleepy eye and looks at me. “Morning, Esme,” he yawns. “Did you sleep well?” Now, I could have answered this in a number of ways. Instead, I just grunt something unintelligible and step over him. He jumps to his feet and follows me. “I’m here for you all day,” he says, brightly. “You need to take a shower,” I say. “You smell like you haven’t had one in a week. “I haven’t,” he agrees, happily. “That’s disgusting,” I tell him. “No, it’s enlightening,” he assures me. And suddenly, to my horror, I realize this is no passing phase and I am doomed.

I gather my wits while I glare at him. “You know, if you never leave my side you’re not ever going to have sex again. You know that, right?” “Oh, I’ve renounced sex,” he says, happily. “That’s a low, base practice and it’s the root of all my problems.” “I’m not going to disagree with you there,” I tell him. “But sex isn’t the half of it with you.” “This may be true,” he nods. “That’s why I’m going to stay right by your side until we figure this stuff out.” “Excuse, me?!” I yelp. “I’m going to submit to your will, Esme,” he purrs. “I’m going to be with you, breath by breath.”

And this is when I realize something. I may have always thought I wanted a life partner. But the truth is, my soon-to-be-ex is a lunatic and I’m no Buddhist monk. I have my kids, what else do I need? Another man who won’t leave my side for months on end? No way. Suddenly, all I want is for the male species (the HBPD and Raoul notwithstanding) to move aside so I can have a spiritual partnership that, crazy as this may sound, is purely about me.