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I Wish My Ex-Wife Were a Pizza

I wish my ex-wife, Monica, had just been born a pizza.

That would have made everything way easier for everybody, the way I see it.

And I’m not trying to diss her or anything either. I’m dead serious. See, it makes all kinds of sense to me because the thing is, whenever we see each other for more than a few minutes at a time, which isn’t much really, we end up eating pizza. It’s almost as if that’s the only thing the two of us could possibly find in common at this point: our pizza love. And hell, maybe it IS the only thing we have in common. What do I know, maybe it’s all we ever had in common?

Truth is, when I come to think of it, there could be an argument made that our mutual admiration for that one particular food, even down to our unsophisticated appreciation for watching crappy TV while snarfing low-brow slices from Papa John’s, is the only thing that unites us. We are two people who came into each other’s lives, got married, fell apart and broke up all to a soundtrack of a million pizza delivery orders. Okay, our three kids have to be in there somewhere too, I guess, but kids are a given. And givens are boring.

These days, with the snatches of clarity (aka: lies I tell myself) that come after months and months of separation, I’ve got good reason to sort of wish that the woman I ended up trying to spend the rest of my life with had just been born a hot damn pizza pie.

And maybe a pizza can’t exactly get "born," but that’s even better. If my ex-wife’s fate had always been to end up as a pizza, I think there are things about that that she would have actually really, really enjoyed. I mean, think about it from one of those NPR/BBC-ish multicultural angles, if you will. Imagine what I’m telling you with the term "life experience" pinging around behind your pretty little eyeballs.

Our love would have been easy and epic.

See, in order to be born into pizzadom, she would have had to have experienced this whole fantastical series of births, births which would have found her maybe even getting born all over the damn world. You get what I’m saying, don’t you? When you consider the utter depth and scope of this zany wish that I’m proposing, it almost has like a real Buddhist flair to it, doesn’t it?

A pizza isn’t just born with a magical ‘Poof!’ into a DiGiorno box in the frozen food aisle down at Walmart, you know. OK, some pies might taste that way, I’ll give you that much, but look, I would never wish that upon her. I’m not the kind of dude who you’ll ever stumble across sitting here in my new place — (my bachelor pad, ya’ll! HOLLA!) — and wishing that my ex, the mother of my kids, would have come down to Earth as some kind of cryogenically comatose stoner snack, OK?

C’mon. Give me a little credit.

You probably need to know a little something about me right here and now. I’m a man of dignified hopes and dreams, and the very notion that I would EVER wish that certain people in this world were born into a bag of frozen chicken nuggets, mozzarella sticks or taquitos instead of being born naked and afraid as the living, breathing potential heartbreaker or pain-in-the butt that they truly are? Well, that’s just offensive to me. That’s not my style at all.

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My vision for Monica, someone I have spent a quarter of my life with, would have been a beautiful one, a vision that brought her much happiness throughout her childhood and young adult years, right up until the moment we first laid eyes on each other. And after that, nothing would have been able to stop us, man. Our love would have been easy and epic.

For starters, like I was saying, she would have had to been born into this world in at least 10 different places, right? She would have known way more of the world than most people ever get to see.

Here, then, are some of the magical, wonderful things I wish my ex-wife could have been born as:

  • An oregano plant in California.
  • A cow in Wisconsin (for the cheese, duh)
  • A tomato in New Jersey
  • An anchovy in the Mediterranean
  • A sugar stalk in Mississippi (for the sauce)
  • Some salt in the cold, rough, lonesome Atlantic Ocean (for sea salt, you moron)
  • A pig in Texas (a pepperoni pig!)
  • A basil plant in North Carolina
  • A wheat stalk in Ohio (crust)
  • A corn stalk in Nebraska (crust)
  • A mushroom in Pennsylvania
  • A green pepper in, I don’t know, Georgia (?)
  • And maybe a tree in Maine (pizza box)

Now look: You read that list and tell me that it isn’t a list stemming from some higher plane of consciousness. You know that it is. It’s a genuine throwback dream of a better place and a better time. It’s like, looking back on my marriage and my love affair with a woman.

I don’t find myself wishing that I had never met her or kissed her soft lips or held her hand on the bridge over the Grand Canal in Venice (OK I was too cheap to spring for the gondola ride ... 65 euros for 30 minutes/are you high?!!?). I’m just wishing that she and I had maybe met another way, under different circumstances, I guess, and that our fate, as intertwined as it always has been, our eventual togetherness slow-cooking for millions of years up there in the night stars, all of that would have been tweaked just a little this way and that way to allow for ... how do I put this ... a slightly ‘different’ experience.

She would have dug meeting me as a pizza way more than she probably did as my bride-to-be.

Plus, she loves pizza, that girl does! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! We both love pizza! It’s the only thing we ever do together anymore, remember?! We find ourselves in the same room hanging out on rare occasions and you can be downright certain that there is a pizza in front of us on the coffee table, just like old times. Or if there’s not one yet, you just KNOW there’s one bathing in its own steamy goodness in that red plastic-y delivery guy pouch on the passenger seat of some college dude’s Civic, bouncing and barreling toward us through the endless night.

It’s all such an honorable wish, I think. It would have been pretty great, if you ask me, if Monica had lived a whole slew of various and exciting lives all over the continent, only to ultimately find herself amalgamated into the greatest food of all time. She would have dug it. She would have dug meeting me as a pizza way more than she probably did as my bride-to-be.

And even if she were a pizza and I didn’t know her as Monica, I still would have known, trust me. Oh, I would have sensed her. My Monica. A pizza called Monica.

I have a gift. I’m not bragging, I just do. I have a way with pizza. They speak to me. Go ahead and laugh, I don’t care. You don’t know me. I would have suspected something was really special about that particular Stuffed Crust Supreme the moment I had given the guy his $2 tip and settled the box down on the coffee table in front of me beside the bottle of Chianti, down in front of this mysterious beautiful, wise woman I was getting ready to watch "King of Queens" re-runs with.

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I would have known that this was not just another in a long run of pies from the joint down the street, but rather, a gift from somewhere on high, a present from the cosmos, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to come together as two souls merging into one.

It would have been the pizza of a freaking lifetime, man.

But whatever.

I guess I’ll never know.

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