As you know, I contemplated purchasing a PS3 for my husband for his birthday. But, I just couldn't go through with it. It felt wrong. I don't buy video game consoles. He doesn't expect me to. He doesn't buy tampons. I don't expect him to. There are lines in a lasting marriage, for Pete's sake.
So, instead I bought him The Turtle Beach Earforce PX5 Programmable Wireless Headset with a compass in the stock and a thing which tells time. He likes it.
You may think I am a clever voyeur who deeply understands the needs of her husband, but you would be wrong. He emailed me a link for the headset with the subject line "options." I did, however, find it cheaper on Amazon and scored my free two-day Primal Mom shipping. I put in some effort. And I wrapped it. Happy birthday, baby.
The problem is that while my husband attentively sits and plays in absolute Dolby delight, I am relegated to the sidelines. The game world has opened up for him. It is fresh, exciting and full of hope. With each new footstep or gun cock comes a quickening of his heart. He never knew the game could sound like this. Ah, love.
Meanwhile, I sit slumped on the couch, gazing back and forth between him and the game, the game and him. I try to read his expression, the words on the screen, anything to get a clue of what is going on. I try to ask a question, make a joke, but it is no use. He can not hear me. I take a swig of beer and sigh. I feel defeated, tossed aside. Alone.
But just as I rise to tromp upstairs, my husband turns to me and smiles. "Hey babe," he says a little louder than he probably meant to. I awkwardly act as if I was merely adjusting my position on the couch. I smile back. He slides the earphone closest to me just a bit off the lobe, sends me an air kiss and turns back to the screen. An invitation.