Fragile Male Ego

The Fragile Male Ego.

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I left the job at noon on Friday, and my day was complete. I'd just finished a deal that would net the company a lot of money, and when the contract was signed, I sent my team home, telling them to enjoy the weekend. Mine certainly promised to be.

I sat in my favorite coffee shop, relaxing over a large coffee and a scone the shop owner's daughter had made. They were always delicious, always fresh, and sold out rapidly, and I managed to snatch up the last three. Then I heard the bell over the door and glanced up. There she was, the ex-wife, looking just as good as when we were married. The hand she held didn't belong to the man she was supposed to marry next month, and I wondered if there was trouble in paradise. Most likely, but it was none of my business, and I had long since passed the point where it affected me one way or another.

She stopped giggling when she saw me, said something to the man, and he walked out. Then she marched up and, without asking, plopped down, glaring at me. "I hope you're happy!"

My grin startled her. "I am, Dawn, happier than I have been in a long time. The last time I was this happy was the weekend before you so casually announced you were having affairs with two different men, and I was going to have to live with it or divorce you because you weren't going to stop. I think you were shocked I went the divorce route. It's been over three years, but I'm in a good place now. Why would my happiness be of interest to you anyway? Does it offend you that I'm not pining for you?"

"Damn you, Jax! I know you talked to Harry; he called the wedding off."

Well, that was news. I wondered if Harry realized how big a bullet he dodged. I laughed, which pissed her off even more. "If you and Harry split up, it wasn't because of me. When he ran into me that day and asked what had happened between us, I told him it was my fragile male ego and asked you to define that for him. That was the whole conversation. Sorry, it didn't work out. For you, not so much, but Harry, he's better off."

Her lips went back into a snarl. "And there it is! That pitiful ego of yours. If it wasn't so fragile, why did it take you more than eighteen months to even date anyone again?"

" No, I didn't date for a while, but it wasn't because of my ego. I did it because you shattered my trust in women. It doesn't matter how big the mountain is if you plant enough dynamite and pack enough into your actions to level Mt. Everest. You know you hurt me to my core, and it took a long time to recover. What it didn't do was make me pine for you. You made your choices, then got surprised when I made mine. What did you miss most about me, my affection or my money? You didn't get much, even though you tried as hard as humanly possible. I bet it made you grit your teeth when I started getting promotions. There have been two since we split up, and there'll be another in a year if I stay on track. I'll be making almost three times what I was making when we were together when it comes through. Aren't you proud of me?"

It occurred to me that she had been living with Harry and allowing him to pay the bills. That could have explained the new guy, another personal ATM. I knew from experience she preferred not to spend her own money. I changed subjects to keep her unbalanced. "So, what happened to Harry? I thought you guys were solid."

Her frown got deeper. "Someone told tales about my past!"

"Tales or the truth?"

"It doesn't matter! I don't do those things anymore."

I was intrigued. "Really? Why not? According to you, it was a brave new world out there, and men needed to learn their place in the grand scheme of things. That's still your opinion, right? Look, I know you did a lot of research and saw the change growing within you, but I thought it was just a phase you were going through. Looking at it in the cold light of day, you'd realize how unrealistic it was. I never thought you'd go along with that shit. Your friends probably helped with our demise. Are they still spouting that feminine-led propaganda? How many are still married to the ones they were when this all started? I'm guessing not many."

"My friends are none of your business!"

"Exactly, and that's how I'd like to keep it. I wouldn't give most of them air in a jug. Idle curiosity, mostly. How's Bets? Still into her black phase? I know one of the affairs you had was with a black man. Tell me, are they bigger, better, able to fuck all night? Inquiring minds want to know."

Snorting, she suddenly laughed. "And there it is, the fragile ego again."

It took her by surprise when I laughed along. "Remember when we watched Princess Bride over and over? When Fessick kept repeating 'inconceivable' until Andre the Giant and Ignacio asked if he knew what it meant. Well, when it comes to men and egos, you're Fessick."

"What does that mean?"

"Dawn, humor me here. Define ego."

"What?"

"It's just a simple question; you seem to know so much about a male ego, but what's the actual definition of ego? I'll wait." Two minutes later, I smiled. "You can't, can you? Let's Google it."

I pulled it up on my phone. "Here we go. Ego is a sense of self-worth, esteem, and importance. There it is, in a nutshell. How does having a decent value of your self-worth translate into being fragile? How could it be fragile if grounded in my core beliefs and solid? If it were, how could I have walked away? Here's another definition that seems to suit you better. Listen to this."

Dawn looked like she was struggling to keep up, so I gave her a minute. When she opened her mouth to talk, I started reading again. "The feeling of self as contrasted to another's, an inflated pride in your superiority to others. That's hitting close to home."

I grinned. "To summarize, my self-worth was inferior to yours. Yours was overinflated to the point you convinced yourself of your rightness and that others needed to follow along. When you realized life doesn't work like that, you didn't handle it well. Tell the truth now, did you, having known me for five years before that conversation, seriously think I would accept your expectations? Be honest here."

She started to speak, stopped, started again, and stopped before blurting out, "I was doing what I thought best for our relationship! You should have loved me enough to go along."

I grinned. "That's bullshit, and you know it. It was just a manifestation of Cake Eater Syndrome. Deep down, I think you wanted me to leave so you could explore your new reality and be ready to return. I was just a fallback plan in case the grand adventure didn't turn out to be what you thought it would be. Honestly, it's been three years, and you haven't found anyone dumb enough to buy into that reality, have you? We know the answer is no. Ultimately, my ego wasn't too fragile; yours was too big. How's it doing now? Are you still confident you did the right thing?"

She blustered for a bit before looking uneasy. "I may have adjusted my expectations somewhat. Maybe we should..."

I held up my hand. "You can stop right there, Dawn. If I wasn't going for it before, what makes you think I want to stand in line for your affection while you date others? If that had been the case, we would never have divorced."

I stopped for a second, wanting to make one more point. "I don't want you to think because of our situation, I fault all women. I'm sure, at this very second, some asshole is trying to convince his faithful, loving wife of the virtues of an open marriage or that his occasional dalliances ever hurt their relationship in any way. I'm also sure she's reacting the same way I did. Egos can be dangerous if left unchecked, regardless of the gender."

The barista came by just then, grinning as she put two cups on the table. Gillian must have sent her a text. Dawn was wondering about them when the door let in a cold blast of air. A twelve-year-old blond bundle of energy ran up to the table, hugging me. "It's freezing out there! Is that my Dutch chocolate cocoa and scone? It better be, or I'm revoking your temporary Dad status."

"Temporary?"

She grinned so hard that all you could see were dimples and eyelashes. "Yeah, at least until the wedding. Then I guess I'm stuck with you."

The woman walked up, shrugging out of her coat, her jet-black hair spilling under the mink-lined hood. It was a Christmas gift and matched her daughters' perfectly. I didn't want my ladies to get cold. She laughed as she ran her hand over her cheek. "Be nice, Andrea. Remember, someone has to fund your college education.

The child scoffed. "Like that would be a worry. Besides, you make more than he does, Dr. Jones. When we move into our new house, then I'll be a spoiled little princess." Then she grinned and stuck her tongue out.

I grinned back. "That would be a change; how exactly?"

The woman kissed me, not a peck, one just barely appropriate for a crowded coffeehouse. "Behave, you two. Honey, where are your manners? Who's your friend?"

I stood, pulling the chairs back for both girls. "This is Dawn. We've known each other for a long time and have discussed how lifestyle decisions can evolve. I'm glad I sought a professional opinion to better understand."

" Sounds boring! How could she stand it?"

"To be honest, it wasn't going very well. Dawn, this is Dr. Gillian Jones, Psy. D., soon-to-be wife, and this is her daughter, Andrea. I'm stuck with her if I want to marry Gillian, and I do, more than anything else. If she gets on my nerves, I can lock her in the basement."

"Daddy! We don't have a basement!"

I ruffled her hair. "Well then, I guess you'll just have to stay in the bedroom you decorated. Life's hard, huh?"

Gill offered her hand, and Dawn shook it as she rose, stone-faced and pale. Then, without a word, she left. Gill watched her as she walked away. "That's Dawn? I thought her fangs would be longer."

"She wore them down, chewing through men. How did the dress fittings go?"

I sighed as I listened in stereo about how 'darling' they were, thinking I would have to listen to things like this for at least the next four or five decades. I was hoping they went by slowly.

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I met Gillian at the public library, of all places. There was an event modeled after the European system of checking out people instead of books. It was some fundraiser, and Bob (mainly his wife Karen) thought it would be a good idea to get me out and about somewhere that didn't offer alcohol as a prominent draw. There were wine and craft brews available, so I picked out a mead that was quite good and wandered around. I'd always loved libraries, especially the smell. Libraries reeked of knowledge. I've attended two events like this before and found them both entertaining and often thought-provoking. After all, you only got twenty minutes, so you tried to stay focused.

Gillian had a long line waiting to talk to her, and reading the placard, I knew why. She was a psychologist, and I bet most people were trying to get a free session. I secured one of the few remaining slots and went to speak with a Buddhist priest, simply because I'd never met one before. He was a pretty sharp guy in his fifties, intelligent and well-educated, and he described his religion without going into much detail. After discovering he was a big fan, I surprised him by talking about baseball. He was passionate about the local pro team, and we discussed the upcoming season, which looked challenging, considering the trades and retirements. Then he went into a discourse about the zen nature of the game until our time ran out. He gave me his contact information, telling me to call him if I needed someone to attend a game with. I kept the card.

My time slot came up, and I slipped into the comfortable chair across from Gillian, taken by her natural beauty and, more importantly, her intelligence. She grinned and asked what I wanted to talk about. "Well, I just spent my time with the Buddhist monk talking about the zen of baseball. Why don't you surprise me, and let's talk about something you want to, for a change?"

That caught her by surprise. "You know I'm a psychologist. Do you know exactly what that is?"

"Probably, in the broadest of terms. What are your hobbies? Married? Children? Who are you when people don't have to address you as Doctor?"

"I'm not here to talk about my personal life, but I'll give you the broad strokes. I have a daughter six months shy of her twelfth birthday, and she already thinks she's smarter than I am. She's right in many instances. No husband, we parted ways years ago, and without going into details, we no longer shared life goals. I was a good softball player in college and still enjoy watching a baseball game occasionally. Now, it's time to share. I also enjoy old westerns, so quoting a John Wayne classic, Who might you be when you're at home?"

"Well, I ain't Court Evans. I'm Jackson Jarvis, but friends call me Jax. I have no kids, but I share the same statistical demographic as you, divorced, though not as long. Eighteen months now. It was surprising; in other ways, I could see it coming from miles away. She fell into a crowd that believed in female-led relationships and the ability to have as many lovers as she wanted while still legally attached to me. It surprised her when I refused her gracious offer. She tried to fight it while still clinging to her ideas, and when she tried to explain it to the judge, it went off the rails. He didn't even order counseling. I have a vague question about your line of work. Can you recommend a good, definitive book on the concept of ego? She kept talking about 'the fragile male ego,' and I've always wondered what she meant."

She seemed a little surprised, then smiled slightly. "Fragile male ego is a catchphrase right now. Try 'The Way Of Integrity,' by Martha Beck, or 'You Are Not What You Think,' by David Richo. Many others are out there, but a layperson best understands those two."

I shook her hand; my time was up. "Thank you so much. Maybe I can understand what was going through my ex's mind when she reached those conclusions."

She returned the smile. "As a qualified professional, I think it's safe to say no man can understand how a woman's mind works or a woman a man's. You tend to fumble along as best you can, and with each passing year, if you have a good, solid relationship, you understand just a tiny bit more. Best of luck and all that. Tell me, are you in a serious relationship now?"

My smile disappeared. "It's been eighteen months, and I've just started dating again. I don't think I'm damaged too badly, but I am exceedingly cautious."

"It took almost three years before I went out with a man, and though I sometimes enjoy the dates, I haven't connected with anyone on a level deep enough to consider a relationship. My first thought will always be my daughter, and she will always come first."

I nodded. "As it should be. Is her father still part of her life?"

The frown was pretty deep. "No, sadly, he divorced her as well. She was six when he left, and she wouldn't know him if he passed her on the street."

It was my turn to frown. "I have no children, but if I did, there is not a situation I could think of that would keep me away."

She showed me a picture of a young girl with blond braids and a big smile. "She's going to be as beautiful as her mother. Oops! I didn't mean to say that out loud, but I stand by it. I have to go now, but meeting a refreshingly honest woman in this day and age was excellent."

She shook my hand and frowned a little. "There are many honest, decent women out there; you're just now starting to come to terms with that reality. Email me if you need anything explained while reading the books."

She handed me her business card. I gave her mine, knowing we'd never talk to each other again.

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Four months later, I thought about her when a vendor handed me four terrific seats at the Saturday ballgame. The team was in the chase for a pennant, and this could be a crucial game. None of my friends or colleagues were interested, so I used them.

Before I invited her, I thought about the monk I had spoken to, found his temple, and sent him an invitation. He called me, happily accepting. He didn't own a car, so I picked him up, surprised to see him in his robes.

Dr. Jones replied to my email, thanking me but saying she couldn't find a babysitter. My reply surprised her: "I had four tickets and assumed you'd take her since it's such short notice. Does she like baseball?"

She replied that her daughter was on a softball team and was really into it and would be over the moon to see a professional game. I met them in the parking lot, where we introduced ourselves to each other, and then we found our seats. She was going to sit beside me, but I insisted that the child be between us for safety. There wasn't much conversation due to the crowd noise, and soon we were cheering as well. Andrea, the girl, had impressive lungs and outshouted the whole section. The ump made a bad call, and she questioned everything from his eyesight to his intelligence and ancestry to the delight of the fans near us. None of us drank beer in deference to Han and Andrea, but she consumed hot dogs, nachos, popcorn, and peanuts and must have inhaled half a gallon of soda. I idly wondered when she'd explode. Gillian did in two dogs and a hot pretzel, while Han pigged out on items that didn't interfere with his religious practices. I insisted on paying since they were my guests, and it was the best $300 I'd ever spent.

The game went down to the wire. The home team was down at the bottom of the ninth, with two outs, and it didn't look good. Then the pitcher, with a.170 batting average, slapped a two-base hit to right field. This brought the top of the order, and the first baseman came up. The man was a solid chunk of granite and a deceptively fast runner. It went to a full count, then the pitch got away from the pitcher, and a puffball floated across the plate. He hit it so hard that it broke the bat. Off and running before the pieces hit the ground, the ball headed right towards us. I didn't think, worried it might hit Andrea, and caught it with my right hand. That stung. My left hand was still locked in hers as she chanted 'Hit, hit, hit' repeatedly, her right gripping her mother's. Her eyes opened when the ball hit my hand, inches from her face. It was almost touching her nose when my hand stopped moving.

I grinned and handed her the ball, telling her she needed to bring a glove next time. The crowd erupted as he trotted around the bases, ending the game with a 6 to 5 score. The cameras had captured the ball's flight, and we were all on the sports section of the nightly news as I handed the ball to her, and she leaped into my arms. The hitter said in an interview that if I brought the ball back, he'd autograph it for her.

That prompted a phone call, and we were in the bleachers the following Sunday. The first baseman proved true to his promise, signing the ball, taking pictures with her, and giving her a jersey with his number and a team cap. He gave all of us hats, and the cameras panned to us often to see Andrea and Han holding hands and jumping up and down after a home run. The jersey was about ten times too big on her, but she wore it and the cap throughout the game. The camera found her pretty quickly, and when he hit another home run, they did a split screen, showing him trotting around the bases while she screamed, jumping up and down.

Baseball players are a superstitious lot, and the manager decided that if they won twice while she was in attendance, she would come to more games. As a result, we became a fixture until they lost the chance to advance by one game. Han had become a good friend by then, and he and Gillian sometimes had deep discussions about his religion and her profession. They discussed the Western concept of ego versus the Buddhist view of zero ego. It was fascinating, but it quickly left Andrea and me behind, so we'd grab the gloves and toss balls in the backyard.