The Seven Month Itch
In the movie The Seven Year Itch, the main character, played by Tom Ewell, spends the movie fighting the temptation to have an affair with Marilyn Monroe while his wife and son are away at the beach. The title comes from a book that Ewell’s character is publishing that claims almost all men have an extramarital affair in their seventh year of marriage. As an aside, it has been decades since I watched the movie, but my memory is that Marilyn did not seem overly interested in anything more than a friendship with Ewell, but her feelings were seemingly unimportant.
I was thinking about this movie because I have been in Japan for seven months, and I think I have the seven month itch. I do not mean to suggest that I am looking to have an extramarital affair. Honestly, I couldn’t even if I wanted. Wooing or being wooed is rather difficult when you don’t speak the language. But I am itching for something new, specifically I feel a strong desire to return home to Ohio. I don’t say that lightly, in fact, it took me a long time to admit it to myself. As if admitting I was homesick would be tantamount to declaring this whole experience a failed experiment and myself a failure for not completely thriving.
I have been told that a period of feeling this way is very common around the one-year mark (I guess I am an early bloomer) and the feeling usually subsides. It’s just that all the little peculiarities of life in Japan that are humorous fodder for these Substacks are grating when they occur every day in every interaction. I am in a heightened state of stress every time I go out into public, and particularly if I am trying something new. It’s exhausting.
Attack of the Size Large Medium Woman
If you read my previous Substacks[1] you know that I struggle to find clothing in Japan that fits me as the vast majority of Japanese women are, frankly, really freaking tiny. This Fall I am going to need new jeans, not because the ones I brought do not fit me or are worn out, but because - I guess - we have all decided that we aren’t doing straight leg jeans anymore? I know that finding jeans is going to be a herculean task, let alone the loose-fitting jeans that appear to be the style now. At least that is what I understand based on TikTok videos of Gen Z girls making fun of Millennial women. Side note, to all the Gen Zer, I cannot and will not go back to calf-high athletic socks. Just accept it.
This feeling of being larger than all the beautiful Japanese women around me is, apparently, not just in my head. While windsurfing in Okinawa, the frustration of the first day, which was already traumatic enough,[2] was compounded by the resort employee handing both Aaron and me size Large lifejackets. The lifejacket fit Aaron well who is 6’1’’ and roughly 180lbs. However, when I jumped into the water, the lifejacket surrounded my head like a halo traction brace.
The next time out, the resort employee looked at me and handed me the size Large lifejacket again. I asked for the Medium, but this bold young man said, “No, I think this one,” referring to the Large.
“I had that size before and it came up to my ears in the water,” I said. “But I will try not to be offended by that comment.” The young man laughed nervously and handed me the size Medium, which I easily fastened around me. As promised, I tried not to be offended.
But I failed.
Strangers in Love
Lately, Aaron’s work hours have been increasing as he has had many early-morning and late-night meetings with the United States. As Aaron continues to prove himself a valuable resource for both the Americans and Japanese, I fear this recent trend will become the norm and even get worse. Aaron’s schedule leaves him little time to do anything during the work week besides work. That leaves every other part of family-life my responsibility, including shopping, cooking, cleaning, and everything involving Franny, her school, tutoring,[3] activities, and social life.[4]
Because of his long hours we often feel like ships passing in the night, and because of our distinct responsibilities our lives can feel unconnected. This division can even exist on weekends. For example, last weekend we were supposed to have a family movie day, but as soon as Franny asked Aaron to play Barbies, suddenly the gravel driveway needed to be immediately weeded resulting in Aaron being occupied, and Barbie-free, all day.[5]
Our Japanese teacher once told Aaron that her and her husband have date nights on occasion. In the US, a date night for couples is a normal concept and something in which Aaron and I would partake when we had access to a babysitter. In Japan, date nights and babysitters are not as prolific. My Japanese teacher’s friends thought her date nights were bizarre, and they wondered what her and her husband could possibly have to talk about all evening long. As Aaron’s and my life become more separate, I understand their question more and more.
In fairness, Aaron and I were warned repeatedly by his company and others that life in Japan would be challenging on us as a couple and as people, but I seriously underestimated how divergent our lives would become, and I seriously overestimated my ability to learn Japanese. I’ve always been bad at math, and apparently you can add foreign languages to that list too.
Maybe this ebb and flow of our relationship is natural. Aaron and I are in our – dun dun duun - seventh year of marriage. I will be keeping an eye out for any Marilyn Monroe types seductively standing on subway grates.[6]
Humidity That Makes You Batty
I mentioned, or rather complained about in ad nauseum, the humidity in Japan in other Substacks.[7] It is the end of August, and I am here to report that finally – the humidity is still fucking terrible. While I have been told that life in Ohio is not much cooler, I long for the barricade against heat and humidity that central air provides. Japanese homes only have wall unit air conditioners, and in our house no room with a toilet is equipped with one. Every day I feel like I am peeing in a sweat lodge. Throw in some peyote, and we’d be having a good time.
The intense and suffocating humidity also seems to have brought the bats home. Home being my front door and laundry balcony. And the bats are eating well. My hobby of cleaning up bat shit has increased in frequency from once or twice a week to an almost daily endeavor. I am sure I will soon be diagnosed with some new and crazy form of the coronavirus. Assuming COVID came from bats, but I have a harder time keeping up with COVID origin theories than I do Gen Z fashion trends.
Just Another Brick in the Wall
Throughout most of my Substacks,[8] I have lamented the Japanese zeal for strict and specific rules. Just this past week, Franny was told she couldn’t wear a headband at a children’s play area, she couldn’t have a toy on the slide, and at a public pool we had to wear swim caps, no bikinis, I had to cover my tattoos, we could only swim for two hours, and even adults had to take a five-minute break once an hour.
But the rules around recreational activities are nothing compared to the rules of driving in Japan. Slow speed limits, narrow roads, long lights, back-in parking, no street parking, and a legal alcohol limit of .03% that effectively eliminates any drinking and driving. Add to it driving on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the vehicle, and you begin to understand why I opt for walking everywhere, even in the humidity.
Last week, I made the mistake of driving someplace new. One of the American families that is returning to Ohio generously agreed to give me their dehumidifier. Did I mention I hate humidity? Since there is no street parking anywhere in Utsunomiya, they provided me the specifics on where to park in front of their apartment building. I paralleled parked in between two orange cones sitting in front of a brick wall on a street so narrow it was scary. Out of concern for other traffic on the street, I got as close to the wall and as far out of the street as possible. I was damn proud, in fact.
When I returned to my vehicle, a building employee and another woman were all atwitter about something or other. I assumed the woman needed my parking spot, so I tried to communicate that I was leaving in broken Japanese. This was not the problem. Thus began an Abbott & Costello style comedy routine of the building employee speaking in Japanese and me telling him, in Japanese, that I didn’t understand Japanese, which continued until the woman he had been talking to finally had enough. She said in English, “he thinks your car is damaged.”
I followed the man to the back of my vehicle to see that my van was ever so barely touching the coarse brick wall. When I put the vehicle into park, there must have been just enough movement as to cause the vehicle to now be touching the wall. “Oh shit,” I responded.
When I pulled away, I could see that ugly brick wall put tiny scratches in the paint of my vehicle. Frustrated and annoyed but rather unphased, I continued about my day heading to the store. Shit happens after all. However, my brain went down a rabbit hole of panic remembering that one of the relocation experts that works for Aaron’s company told me that every single traffic accident had to be reported to the police even if there was no damage. Since there is not a lot of crime in Japan, and the Japanese seem to love strict and specific rules, the police are free to be actively involved in even minor traffic incidents. While I would hardly call this a “traffic accident,” I did call the relocation expert anyway, but not the police.
Fortunately, the police did not need to be involved. Unsurprisingly though, there was paperwork that needed to be promptly completed. Additionally, the vehicle must go to a mechanic to have the damage assessed and repaired. Ultimately, this free dehumidifier that, no shade on the lovely family that gave it to me, doesn’t work worth a shit will cost $200 in the deductible for the scraped paint.
Update – before this Substack went to print, so to speak, it happened again. While backing into a carport at a friend’s house, the same corner of the vehicle rubbed a different brick wall located right next to their carport. There are a lot of brick walls in Utsunomiya. I really hate driving in Japan, and I really fucking hate backing in to parking spots. At least the vehicle was not repaired yet.
Aaron’s company sent me out to take photos of the brick wall to ensure it wasn’t damaged, which of course it wasn’t. I’m driving a Honda, not a tank. Since this has now happened twice, I was told they will be reporting it to General Affairs. Maybe I’ll get sent home…fingers crossed.[9]
Shallow Pools and Failures
Bram Stoker, the author of Dracula, once said, “We learn from failure, not from success.” Japan must be making me damn smart because I have a lot of failures here. And somewhat ironically, Japan has also made me significantly more comfortable around bats and their poop.
The day after my first “traffic accident” I took Franny back to that public pool. I typed up a message in Google Translate on my phone to hand to the front desk clerk. Something like “Hello. I am sorry. I do not speak Japanese. I need a pass for a 5-year-old.” I was deep-breath-stressing again another situation where I would not be able to speak to anyone, read anything, or understand entirely the expectations for my behavior when Franny said, “Mom, it’s not that deep.”
Her words stuck with me. It isn’t that deep. It’s just a pool, some pants, a lifejacket, temporarily busy schedules, and some small scratches on a vehicle. She’s right, none of it is that deep. As it turns out she was talking about the literal depth of the public pool…but metaphorically she is also correct. None of it is that deep.
At the end of The Seven Year Itch, Ewell’s character ultimately does not sleep with with Marilyn Monroe. Instead, he freaks out about a handsome man with whom he fears his wife might be having an affair. He decides to leave and go to his wife and son at the beach. In the metaphor of wanting to return to Ohio, I don’t know what the hunky guy at the beach represents. But I think the lesson is to appreciate what you have before its gone, because the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.
And a new pool may just end up being even deeper. With even more bats. Ok, I’ve jumped the shark on the metaphors now. Hehe
[1] See Time to Put on My Big Boy Pants.
[2] See Pissed off in Paradise.
[3] The challenges of trying to teach your own child is whole different Substack. Recently, Franny said, “I wish you were patient like Aunt Erinne.” My Japanese teacher laughed so hard I thought she might fall over. I think Aunt Erinne appreciated the comment.
[4] I realize far too many women do most, if not all, of the housework and parenting while maintaining full-time jobs. I was very lucky that Aaron and I had an equal-ish division of labor when I was working outside the home.
[5] Weeding the driveway is the one household chore that is entirely Aaron’s. This is probably because I refuse to do it. Weeds are fine.
[6] Aaron would like you to know this is just a joke. See my Coming from America Substack where I mention Aaron’s saint-like fidelity.
[7] See Syllabus Day – But Like for Life…
[8] See STRICTLY PROHIBITED – Unless Drunk
[9] Fat chance.