Just Take the Art Down

After my on-his-way-to-becoming-my-ex-husband moved out, I considered taking down all of the art in the front of the house. He is a musician. The front room held his collection of gig posters, photos of legends and local performers, album covers from his records, and so on.

I am practical, however, and I wasn’t excited about staring at nails and hooks while figuring out what to do next, so decided the collection could come down when it was on its way out.

Divorce happens on its own schedule, despite plans, so I found myself hosting a campaign meet and greet the evening of the day I finalized the divorce. Perhaps not the normal way to celebrate, but life goes on.

The candidate had invited many of the guests, so I didn’t know them all, including the one guy whose eyes, as he came in the front door, immediately went to the art.

I ended up in the kitchen with him later, and learned that he was not just a casual fan of music in general, but a relentless enthusiast whose favorite, formative band is The Who. Coincidentally, the same favorite, formative band deeply, obsessively, and lovingly talked-about at great length and in minute detail on a regular basis by my ex.

I, too, like The Who. Once, when John Entwistle was touring with Ringo Starr, I spent several hours with him, his girlfriend, and a couple of friends drinking coffee and brandy at the Ritz Carlton.

We had a blast, talking about pretty much everything except The Who. We did touch on some other musicians, John evaluating their relative wanker-ness (Timothy B. Schmidt? Wanker!), but we talked about Irish wolfhounds, where to get the best shopping done in Houston for bathing suits if you are on your way to your time share in Cabo (as he and his girlfriend were), their estate in the country, rivers and rowing and various regattas in England, and the sorts of things you chat about with non-rock-star strangers.

Fundamentally, beyond saying I like the band and naming a couple of songs, there’s really not too much I ever need to say about The Who, especially to someone IN THE BAND ITSELF.

Back to the night of my divorce being final.

I had just spent the past quarter-century hearing about The Who. I was no longer contractually obligated to nod and look interested while someone was blathering about Pete Townsend’s attitude toward journalists in this era over that one or anything else.

I was free.

And yet, here I stood in my kitchen, listening to a guy tell me about The Who.

It’s always fun to hear people talk about what they love, and this guy was super-nice and appreciative, I’m sure, that I was listening. I noted his wife, in the other room, studiously avoided looking in our general direction.

As he kept on, my face started contorting in that way it does when you realize you are about to bust out laughing but you cannot, under any circumstances, actually laugh.

I’m sure he read my glowing eyes and holding-it-all-in energy for enthusiasm for the topic. I tried to bring up other musicians. No luck.

Thirty minutes later, I finally excused myself and sped to the bathroom, making it in just in time to grab a towel and cackle maniacally but as softly as possible into it, having finally hit my limit. I started texting friends:

This is my first night being single in 25 years and I’ve been trapped in the kitchen listening to a man talk to me about The Who and what is even wrong with my life and why is happening?!

I took down the art the next day. The blank walls are fine, as is the silence. And when my favorite Who songs come on the radio, I turn them up and don’t talk to anyone about them.