I am acutely aware that my novel about the sexually-frustrated husband, An Ordinary Man, strikes some as nothing more than a pathetic screed by one no longer able to seduce his wife. I am also acutely aware that it could have been written by any one of, say, ten million American males, one of whom I met last night in my night job as a driver for Uber.
Conversations in my car can turn astonishingly intimate in a very short time, given that participants are shielded to some extent by darkness, seating arrangements, relative anonymity, and the certainty that we are unlikely to cross paths again.
But after finding out I was separated in large part because of the interference of Us (my wife and I) by Them (our children), my passenger quickly revealed that he was headed down the same path; with children aged 5 and 3, sex had become reduced to a monthly event.
He told me he wanted it from her more than from anyone but that he wasn’t going to stand for not getting it from anyone. I reminded him that something caused him to throw in with her and that he’d be wise to try to rekindle that, but not to expect tangible progress for four to six months, knowing that he, like me, like all normal men, will probably tire of of waiting that long.
America’s divorce rate will continue to climb.