Whatever he wants
The commonest question I am asked when someone hears about the new job is, “So what’s David going to do?”
Innocent enough, on the face of it, but what assumptions lurk behind that question! Which, I don’t doubt, hardly anyone would ask of him were our situations reversed. Women are supposed to be the trailing spouses, don’t you know.
The question has an easy, facile answer. He’s got a dissertation to write, so he’ll write it. That’s the answer I’ve used. It seems to satisfy.
I resent the question, though, resent it a little bit more every time I hear it. Some of these people could just ask David. Even more, though, I resent the way it’s typically asked, as though I couldn’t possibly move without a definite track available to him. “Does David know what he’ll be doing?” is one question, but they never ask that question. It’s always “What’ll he be doing?” and they always assume I know. Do they think I’ve arranged something for him? Maybe they do. How many men feel pressure to arrange jobs for trailing wives, I wonder?
I’m sure I wouldn’t feel such exasperation if the question didn’t hit me where I live. It does. I started this job search hoping to stay in Madison, mostly for David’s sake. Then David expressed a wish to try for a career in academia, and I tried like all hell to revise my own aspirations to fit—and utterly hit a brick wall. Could not see, even a little bit, why I had to put myself on the shelf indefinitely for the sake of a distant maybe.
We’re still picking up the pieces from that fight, which happened six months ago. It was and is a serious marriage-strain; I have said the word “divorce” louder than a whisper and more than once. I haven’t said it today, haven’t felt the need to. I think we’ll get through this. I think it’s two parts job-search stress, two parts dissertation stress, one part move stress, one part graduation stress, and three parts thoughtlessness on both sides. Most of this is going (or has gone) away, sooner or later, and recognizing it is one step toward defusing it.
These people blithely assuming I daren’t take a single step without ensuring his continued comfort and employment? Are so very not helping, though. The anger I should be reflecting straight back at them somehow gets deflected unjustly toward David.
You know what? Enough. I have had enough of that question, enough of the guilt it tries to engender, enough of the spurious responsibility.
What David does is fundamentally not my problem. I did my bit. I explained the realities of the library job market; I discussed the possibilities until my ears and teeth bled; I consulted with him when Rohan and Perdóndaris seemed likely to come up with offers. Likewise, I’m willing to deal with whatever he decides to do—write his dissertation or not, write another book or not, get a job or not, full-time or not, hell, sit around all day on the Internet or not—I don’t plan to put any skin in that game. It’s not my life; it’s not my problem.
I have a job, a worthwhile job, a job that will support us both in the modest style to which we are accustomed. What will David do in Perdóndaris?
Whatever he wants.