Going in Circles Read Online Free PDF

you’d ever say ‘I do’ was when someone asked, ‘Do you want more potato chips?’ ”
    Charlotte was only five when her mother told her she’d grow up to be an awkward-looking woman, as years ago her father got her then-pregnant mother drunk and took her on a roller coaster, hoping to get rid of the baby.
    One of those stories isn’t true, but I don’t want to say which one my narrator made up. The answer won’t be flattering, and besides, this way I don’t have to dwell on the two terriblestories that are completely true. Otherwise my daily plan will have to include “Find a Way To Sue Your Mother for Emotional Trauma.”
    It isn’t that we don’t love each other, my mother and I. It’s more like we try to keep our love for each other a secret. We never hug. We don’t say “I love you.” We do tell each other when we’re disappointed in each other, because that’s important. Criticism makes you a better person for other people. Plus, if you find a couple of hours when you have less disappointment in each other than usual, you can note the banner day in your relationship.
    This is why I haven’t told my mother about my marriage. I don’t think I’m prepared to handle the criticism. I figure as long as I keep Mom in the Emotional Zero zone, everything should be okay. We will both pretend that neither of us has any real thoughts or feelings about anything. Like we always do. We will discuss the weather, other people’s problems, anything interesting we got in the mail, and—if things get really crazy—one will tell the other about a newfound breakfast place where you can get a phenomenal glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.
    My parents have been married for thirty-five years. This is how they handle problems or conflict: they don’t. There are no problems. Problems don’t exist. There are
situations.
There are
unfortunate moments.
There are
mistakes.
There are
bad patches.
They are only referenced as past events, and even then they are glossed over to the point where I cannot tell you a single thing that my parents have fought over. I can barely remember times when it seemed they weren’t getting along. They never looked like they were in love, really. I can count on one hand the number of times I saw them kiss, and each time it was an accident when they thought they were completely alone. Their love was intentionally kept away from my view. Like it was none of my business. They were Mom and Dad—two people in charge of keeping me adhering to the rules of growing up. Basically, I have no idea what it looks like to be a married couple. But if someone needs me to take a kid’s bike away for the weekend because she jumped on the bed, then I know exactly what to do.
    If I tell my mother that I couldn’t handle half a year of marriage, there’s no telling what might happen. She could set my hair on fire. This is not a random hypothetical. This is something she actually did to her cousin when they were six and fighting over a spoon of raw cookie dough.
    Mom’s voice mail:
    â€œCharlotte. I asked your father and he said he hasn’t heard from you in a while. You shouldn’t do things like that. He’s old and will be dead before you know it and then you can spend all the time you want not talking to him.
    â€œI got these shorts the other day but I don’t like how they make my knees look, so let me know if you’d want them and I won’t return them. You’ve got thicker legs, so your knees might not look as funny in them.
    â€œOh, and you’ll have to talk to your father again because now he’s insisting on having some kind of production for my birthday next Friday. Anyway, it’s the four of us. Dinner. Tell Matthew that work’s no excuse this time, and he can’t skip out again. Bring a couple bottles of that wine you brought that one Christmas,