Gary—taller than almost everyone anyway—now towers over the room because he’s the only one standing. Looking beyond Sari, he points to a ukulele on a shelf. “May I borrow that?”

“Of course,” Sari says. “Anything for art!”

We all watch as he steps around pillows and people to reach it and tune it before sitting back down to play. But after strumming a few goofy chords, he stops.

“I think I’m feeling kind of shy,” he whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “It’s been a really long time since I wrote or performed anything. Years, actually. My anxiety has robbed me of what I love for a very long time.”

“Sharing one’s art is a courageous act. We are all here to support you, fellow brave-warrior-soul.” She bows her head again. “We are so grateful to receive the gift of your sharing.”

Every time Sari says something ridiculous, which is essentially every time she opens her mouth, I want to catch Gary’s eye—want him to validate the extremely high bullshit quotient going on here, the way we normally do at home. This is not who we are. We are not joiners. We are not suckers for this kind of emotional group-think manipulation. We don’t belong here. But something is happening. Gary is absorbing whatever it is that the group is offering him—beyond just the “empathic solidarity of the artist’s spirit,” as described on Sari’s website. They are supporting him, shoring him up, seeing him for who he is. He closes his eyes, then picks up the ukulele again.

I’m sad with you.

You’re sad with me.

You’re distant, and quiet, until you see the dog.

Suddenly you coo, you kiss, you’ve found your bliss.

The way you are with her is how you used to be with us.

Why do you love the dog more than me?

I’ll be frank: I’ll tell you why I pout and what this is all about:

I feel left out.

How sad it is to have to admit

That I’m deeply jealous of our pet!

Again, I’m blindsided. It never occurred to me that Gary would be jealous of the dog, though it’s completely understandable, since I show the dog way more love and affection than I show him. I’m also mortified, but at least I left the dog at home so no one knows about the sling. I barely breathe as I glance around the room—the women convulsing in laughter, delighted by his song. Several of them nod, recognizing themselves in his lyrics.

“I spoon with our dog every night and my husband gets so pissed!” one of the women says, before falling over facedown into a pillow, her poncho spread out all around her. Another covers her mouth guiltily: “My husband calls our dog ‘the boyfriend.’”

Gary rests the ukulele in his lap. He seems relieved by the positive reception to his song, but I can tell that he’s also surprised and confused by the lightheartedness of their reaction: here he was, baring his soul about the deep pain he feels because of the loneliness of our relationship—how he’s competing with, and losing to, a dog, which his wife now wears. But the pathos of what he wanted to communicate got lost in translation, stripped away in favor of the adorableness of his performance and the fact that so many women can relate to the topic of preferring dogs to husbands. He wanted that pain to be acknowledged, seen, felt. Instead, it’s being eclipsed by relatable marriage-humor.