Mary Lou Sanelli
The first March I spent here there was so much rain.
One morning, as winter rain became spring rain, I lazed in bed wondering how I would do, what I would do, with all the hours ahead of me on a rainy day like this if I didn’t have my writing to see me through the hours? Someone who goes for a long walk through the neighborhood first thing in the morning instead of a few short steps to her desk?
And without missing a beat, I thought, I’m going to take the day off.
Why not? Who cares? It doesn’t mean I’m getting lazy. I know what’s likely for me (one morning away from my desk) and what isn’t (two). I threw off the covers and ignored my laptop, so there.
In minutes I was on the sidewalk. I walked to the bakery. And there in a booth to my left were two women talking.
Two women talking are three of my favorite words.Two women talking with a wandering yet focused determination; two women talking seriously who manage to belly laugh at the same time; two women talking and probably not remembering everything that was said when they get home, just that everything was, well, these women tie the loose ends of me to the rest of me.
I stood in line pretending not to listen. I listened.
Uneasy at first and then relieved to know I am not alone.
What are the odds of overhearing two women discuss a story so familiar? Because what one of the women said I know, and the next thing she said I know, and the rest of what she said, I know, I know, I know.
I faked a cough and stepped a little closer to the women.
In no time, I felt how much more fun it is to listen to a story about being so annoyed you are furious, than to be so annoyed you are furious. How much easier it is to listen to a woman trying to forgive herself than it is to forgive myself.
Basically, this is what I heard: One woman said her husband hadn’t remembered to pick up their daughter after ballet class. Again.
Again. That was key.
She was mad. After slamming the door, she drove off and kept driving until she ended up at Trader Joe’s. I could see it. That store is definitely the perfect de-fuming shopping spree destination. The wine aisle alone.
I liked her story. Not the tension of it so much, as what the telling of it meant for the telling of mine. Still, I could have just grabbed my coffee and gone for a walk instead of back to my desk to write . . . this: I don’t know about you, but I don’t often get invited to a formal dinner party.
So.
I bought a new dress. I bought a new shirt for my husband, one that is not a long-sleeved Hurley T-shirt. I found a bottle of wine that looked more expensive than it was and a wine bag with little dogs on it because I know the hostess loves dogs. I put everything in a basket.
I put everything is a basket because my husband was to pick me up after a bike ride I wanted to fit in before the party so that I could have seconds, have more wine, have desert, have more desert. All my husband had to do was remember to bring the basket.
I placed the basket by the front door. The door he had to exit to get out. When we met me at our designated pick-up spot, I was still wearing a bathing suit under a gauzy shift and flip-flops. (I’d also stopped by the pool to swim my laps because did I mention that the host made not one desert, but three?)
Oh no. Oh god. No.
Okay, I know you know what happens next. So did my sister. Who had the nerve to say, “It was really your fault. You should have put the basket in the car yourself.” (I love you anyway, sis.)
The look on his face said it all. “Um, I forgot, sorry.” And nothing else. Wait. Shouldn’t he say more than nothing else? Shouldn’t he be sorry in a way that doesn’t sound like, ut oh, looks like I’m in the dog house. So I better say I’m sorry.
There was major traffic; no time to return home for the basket.
My husband was quiet in the car.
I was not even remotely quiet in the car. I said something that finally made him say something that made me say something that made him even quieter.
But not sorrier.
Part of me thought how could I act this way with the person in this world I love the most? The other part was thinking, I have not forgiven you yet, buddy, not even close.
It wasn’t so much that I had to go to a fancy dinner in a beach cover-up, or that my husband made a mistake. Who doesn’t make a mistake? It’s that his apology triggered something in me I have trouble explaining to him. I wish his apologies sounded like he cared more about what he was actually apologizing for. That’s the thing he doesn’t seem to get. But no matter how many times I’ve tried to explain this to him, his next apology sounds like, “Oh, gee, sorry.” This doesn’t excuse my anger but it does shed light on why my fuse has grown shorter.
At the party, everyone laughed at our “funny story.” On the way home, I don’t remember exactly what one of us said, maybe I told him what I’d read in another writer’s memoir, “we fight with our husbands so we won’t kill people,” but it was something that got us past the worst of us. And somehow we clicked back into place.
I forgave him. I forgave me. I still haven’t worn my new dress. Maybe to next Art Walk.
Whenever I think of this story, I am reminded how listening to others (if a little sneakily) helps us to better know ourselves, and I am happy to say that I am a firm believer in a serendipitous world.
Mary Lou Sanelli’s latest title is In So Many Words, nominated for a 2025 Washington State Book Award. A professional speaker and master dance teacher, she has written the “Falling Awake” column for Pacific Publishing’s Seattle newspapers for 17 years. For more information visit www.marylousanelli.com