Living Someone Else's Life

I'm not where I thought I would be. That seems like as good a place to start as any, since it's the plain truth. As recently as June of 2007 I thought the following fall semester would be spent finishing my academic work at the University of Iowa, with dissertation Hell to follow in the spring. You know, business as usual. Then I received a fateful email (to abuse a cliche) from John Manning, my Iowa mentor, stating that a one-year teaching position had become available at Wayne State College, a small institution in an even smaller town in Eastern Nebraska. I knew nothing about the college or the area but applied anyway, since I was looking for some real world teaching experience and, potentially, a permanent position.

To my great astonishment I was offered the position in record time. It was a bittersweet moment for me; sweet because I was on my way to the culmination of all the work I've done for the past ten years in college, and bitter because I'd have to sacrifice a LOT to make this dream happen, as is often the case with dreams.

Since it was only a one-year guaranteed position (with the option of reapplying for continued employment) and Lauren already had a great job in Iowa, where she had in fact recently been promoted, we made the "executive decision" to live apart for one year. At the conclusion of that year we would live together again, in Nebraska if I was re-hired, and in Iowa if I was not.

It's a strange thing to give up one's marital status for a year, without in fact giving it up. Of course we're still married, but coming home to an empty house (and an empty bed) every night leaves a lot to be desired. See, I'm a husband, and I try to be a good one, and that is part of how I define myself. Leaving my wife and my home (and it IS my home... I may reside in NE but the old adage is true; home is indeed where the heart is) has been more than a minor aggravation for me; at times it has been, well, sad, depressing, all of that.

At least I was able to bring some of what makes me me along for the ride. I have my music, I have my own place, I have my own things... at least, I did. Until January.

I got a great offer in November. I was asked to house-sit for another faculty member who is on sabbatical from WSC for the entire Spring semester. Naturally, I jumped on the opportunity to live rent-free for a semester and besides, I get to live with a cat again which is a big step up from a completely empty apartment. Living rent-free is great. Living in someone else's house is more trying than I would have thought.

It's not quite the same as being a houseguest, because you're not anyone's guest, really. You're living in their house, in their absence. The first night I was there I felt like an intruder, as though I had broken in to steal from these people. I had to close the blinds because I felt like there were eyes on me, as though I did indeed have something to hide being there. Even the cat eyed me with suspicion at first (until he realized I was his new food distributor, anyway. Now we get along fine).

Part of my job is to drive their car occasionally so the battery doesn't die and the hoses don't dry out. So this morning, as I was driving someone else's car from someone else's house to Norfolk to buy food to put in someone else's pantry, it hit me: I've stolen someone else's life. Entirely ripped it off. I'm no longer myself, and the transition took less than six months.

In July 2007 I was a married college student in Iowa, who lived in a two-bedroom townhouse with his wife and two cats and drove his 2005 Ford Focus to school each morning, and drove a bus for money on the side.

In January 2008 I'm a single (it feels that way sometimes, though I'm still a husband, albeit a long-distance one) college educator living in a four-bedroom house with one cat and someone else's stuff, and I drive a 1992 Dodge Caravan. Oh, and the gal who's on sabbatical? I took over her position as faculty adviser for the German Club.

My paycheck is larger, my bed feels larger (and colder), and I frequently wake up not knowing where I am or how I got there.

But at least I still have my music.