I Bought Overpriced Comic Books to Save My Marriage
I make the mistakes so you don’t have to.
In this edition of “The Cavity,” I bring you a piece that was originally posted on Medium in January of this year. (It also appeared at The Good Men Project, but that’s another story about “syndication.”) This tale makes me smile despite it occurring during a rough time in my marriage. People change. It sounds obvious, but I’m always surprised with how many couples deny this fact. Sure, you feel the same about the important stuff like kids and faith practices, but people (should) grow post-matrimony. Sometimes we don’t grow in the same direction though.
And that’s okay. To quote Captain and Tenille, “Love will keep us together.”
Like most mature individuals, I wanted to promote this mantra via epic material gift-giving.
Enjoy!
I’m usually a dissecting, meticulous fiend when it comes to expensive purchases. I ask questions. I hunt for a better price. I do my research. But I saw this as a divine opportunity to mend the frays of our marriage.
With a week left before Christmas last year and my trusty eight-year-old sidekick in tow, I checked off the last remaining gifts from my list. On our way back to the car, we passed by a new antique shop.
“Oh, neat,” I said, gesturing to a new storefront. “We’ll have to check that out later–”
Did I see what I thought I saw?
I put my body in reverse.
“Mom, what is it?” my daughter asked.
Propped in the front window of the antique shop, Hawkeye #1 (1983) showcased Clint Barton, clad in his original purple and blue gear with his arrow ready.
I pointed with a maniacal smile at the grand discovery.
“Dia, we have to go check out that comic book,” I said, still pointing to Clint as he aimed at no one and me. “It’s Hawkeye. For Dad.”
I expected exasperation and a tug, but like a loyal daddy’s girl who knows her Marvel characters (because of her dad), she presented no fight as I turned the knob of the store and entered.
Did I mention that my husband’s name is Clint?
It was meant to be.
A Greater Prize
I hurried to the comic book and held it close as if it was the most wanted Christmas toy of the year.
The price tag on the back brought even more joy.
Fifteen dollars! No sweat!
I quelled my giggles, put on my blinders, and proceeded to the checkout counter.
And then I saw it. No, them.
Wolverine #1 AND #2 (1982) sat safely by the register.
“It’s Wolverine!” I shrieked, alerting the clerk. “My husband’s favorite superhero is Wolverine!”
The sweet gentleman, maybe mid-50s, beamed.
“Perfect Christmas gift for a fan,” he said, ringing up my Hawkeye issue.
I held both and flipped them over.
Eeeeeks! I should put them down! Too expensive. Too expensive.
But I didn’t put them down because I could only think of the roller coaster ride of the past two years. My husband stepped down from leading our church for a multitude of reasons. We had to get our family acclimated to new job transitions and my graduate program. It was also difficult to ignore our growing incompatibility in so many areas.
Two months prior to this pivotal moment in the pop-up antique shop, my husband and I admitted we no longer loved each other. This revelation led to my very attractive panic attack, snot and swollen eyes on full display.
Though I never had aspirations of being a wife and mother partly because of my parents’ chaotic marriage, our thread of wedded “bliss” just didn’t want to snap. I bounced on it as I delved out harsh words throughout our marriage for his lack of ambition though he always supported our family. I gnashed at the thread by taking my husband for granted when I moved on to my latest hobby or entrepreneurial conquest.
In my desperation, I needed to prove that I recognized the presence of substance — worth — in that thread.
The holiday season also marked a long waiting game as my husband’s body refused to pass a kidney stone, so I kind of felt sorry for him.
“So, what do you think about the Wolverine comics?”
Startled and sweating, I had a difficult time deciding or even computing what he said, but I think the shop owner was asking about my interest in purchasing a life-saving organ for my body.
“Oh, these,” I set them down on the counter. “What’s your best offer?”
“Hmm,” he said, looking the two comics over.
He stated a lower price that wasn’t as low as I would have liked.
I cringed but took it.
He rang up my purchases, and I handed him my card, the one linked to my measly checking account supplemented from copywriting jobs and checks from my dad when he felt generous.
But it didn’t matter because this would show my husband that he, rather our story, was worth more than the Marvel Universe. No evil threat, intergalactic journey, or life-threatening snap could stop me.
Excitement bubbled out of me. On the way home, I squealed that I could give Dad Hawkeye for Christmas and save the Wolverines for his birthday in a month. Yes, the plan was set.
Gift-giving is my jam. I pride myself in my phenomenal present-to-person matching superpower. I was about to explode. I whispered my epic gifts to our boys and relished in their approving wide eyes and gaping mouths. I even hinted to my husband about an insane purchase that would knock his socks off and told him I had to give him all the mystery gifts for Christmas.
When you find out you can go back and fix the past, you can’t keep it to yourself. Isn’t that right, Ant-Man… or Hulk… or Tony Stark?
Dr. Strange? Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
“It’s an imperfect world, but it’s the only one we’ve got.”–Tony Stark
The days before Christmas flew by, and on Christmas Eve, I finally had a moment and some ill-placed curiosity.
I went to eBay and did a little search on my comics.
As I scrolled through sold listings of my newly acquired nest-eggs, I wanted to collapse into the floor and move into my new crater-home with my bleeding heart leading the way.
Reader, when I say I overpaid, I don’t mean “Oh, well, let’s just laugh it off.” I mean, my new life’s mission is to take down that antique shop owner and his crap store.
Aside from working on my marriage, of course.
Why didn’t I do a quick search on my phone at the shop? Why didn’t I examine the comics out of their sleeves?
Because I saw this as a way to prove my love, and I believed in our ability to salvage almost two decades of marriage. No time for silly details. This was Christmas, the holiest time to fix problems with material possessions.
Like our friends in Avengers: Endgame, a sacrificial act needed to set the timeline straight.
Circa 2010, I sold a huge plastic tote of my husband’s comic books at a yard sale while he slept before his night shift at the roofing plant.
After the yard sale was over, he noticed the container was gone. Without making eye contact, he asked how much I sold it for.
Let’s just say Christmas had apparently come early for that buyer.
I had also lost six wedding rings during the duration of our marriage. Each one exponentially lower in price than the one before.
But infinity stones (which we find out are basically paperweights, thanks to the show Loki), wedding rings, and comic books have minimal significance in the next phase of life when you’re brought down to your lowest lows.
That Christmas Eve, I sat in the dark with the only lights coming from the Christmas tree. The kids were asleep. My husband was working the graveyard shift.
I cried and believed my irrational purchase symbolized everything so wrong between us.
I Love You 3000
The kids ransacked the living room as they opened their gifts on a picturesque, snowy Christmas morning, and then it was just the two of us: partners, parents, friends, roommates… I didn’t know.
My husband and I went back and forth opening one gift at a time, saving the pièce de résistance for the grand finale.
He pulled them out of his stocking and said something like, “Oh, wow!”
I went straight into a long speech about being an idiot for spending too much.
“How much?” he asked.
I continued my spiel stating how this obvious sign proved how I’m a mess, we’re a mess.
“It’s fine,” he said, smiling. “How much?”
I ignored him and stammered as my defense became desperate, far from my usual pompous, self-assured Enneagram type 8 self.
“I had to buy it for you!” I said, tears spilling over.
“Thank you… but how much?”
I whispered the total.
I didn’t know if he was laughing or choking, but it didn’t matter.
“Wow,” he said as he came close to hold me.
“I’m sorry. It was stupid. I was stupid. I wanted to show how much you mean to me and my love for you and–”
“I know,” he said, now definitely laughing, “but don’t do that again.”
Comforted in his embrace, I breathed deeply, mind and heart beginning to steady.
I have no idea what the year ahead will bring, but I do know small gestures of love will supersede large, idiotic purchases.
And sometimes those little things are all that’s needed to keep the Sacred Timeline preserved for at least another day.
You hooked me, I'm in. I read a couple of these back to back and thought, she's a little out there, and I love it.