A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body Read Online Free PDF Page A

contract!” she says, pulling the underwear off her head. “You’re on freelance contract? When did this happen? Um, I have to take Jon’s puppy on a walk. We’ll talk about this later.”
    She puts the underwear back on her head and walks straight into the executive producer’s office. Which is not where Jon keeps his puppy.
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    Two days later I get a call from my manager, saying, “You’re not going.” Then I am going. Then I’m not going. Then I am. Then I’m tall. Then I’m short. Then I’m black. Then I’m white. Then I am going again. Then I’m not. Again. (As I told a co-worker, I’m just glad this isn’t how the Make-A-Wish Foundation is run.) Finally my manager calls to tell me that the security guy’s second cousin has backed out and I can have his ticket.
    â€œWill your husband be joining you?” Mary asks, after I give her the news.
    I wish Mathew could hear her say that. He and I have argued many times over the fact that whenever he meets anyone at my job they always give a little shocked jump, clasp their heart, and exclaim, “Husband? Lauren, you’re married?” If he’d heard Mary’s question he’d see that things were really changing in our marriage. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice the way she put air quotes around the word “husband.”
    â€œOh no, he’s not going,” I answer. And then I remember that you’re supposed to try in a marriage. I correct myself:
“Oops, that sounded bad. What I meant to say is, does he get a free ticket?”
    â€œWe’d pay for his ticket to the ceremony but he’d have to pay for the rest.”
    â€œThen I don’t think so. It’s not really his thing.”
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    That evening when I tell Mathew that I’m going to go to the Emmys and he isn’t, he hangs his head and says, “Man, you are lucky. This may sound dumb, but it’s like a childhood dream of mine.”
    Ow, my heart. Or maybe it’s my irritable bowel syndrome. Whatever it is, it hurts.
    Forever getting it wrong—that’s how our marriage is starting to feel. I’m vaguely aware of how a loving person acts. I’ve seen it in the movies. I should insist that he go—remind him that money is never the issue and that it just won’t be as much fun without him. But I want him to push more, to say, “I’m going, dammit,” then punch me or something. Be forceful. Maybe not the punch (save that for our anniversary). We are constantly testing to see how much the other one really wants to be here. And every time the answer seems to be “not that much.” Then again, how much more clear a message than “it’s a childhood dream of mine” did I want?
    I don’t know what is wrong with us. I don’t know why since 9/11, when everyone else has been growing closer to loved ones, Mathew and I have been freaking out in our own
little individual cages. The only time we come together is when I stop by the bar where he works.
    In the past the bar had been an environment that worked well for our relationship. Mathew stood safely behind the bar and I got drunk. Everybody wins! But recently things have become odd. As soon as I walk into the bar he makes these huge efforts to show me special attention. He’ll introduce me to the other drunks in the bar as his beautiful wife (“Has everyone met my beautiful wife?”), which is a kind thing to say, I get that. And I don’t immediately yell, “What the fuck is that about?” But somehow his voice sounds wrong. It sounds like it has been sounding more and more since we watched the buildings come down.
    Right after we witnessed what felt to me like seeing the moon explode, he turned to me and said something like, “This day will go down in history,” in a sort of FDR voice. He’s used that old-fashioned radio announcer voice