Lucky 21

 21 years later...

my love grows

every day

and I still feel like the luckiest.

Love you, G.

. . .

Listen:  The Luckiest ~ Ben Folds  

and (for anniversary authenticity)

Can I have this dance for the rest of my life? ~ Anne Murray*

**Can I Have This Dance was the (unrequested but awesomely quirky) song we danced to at our reception, sung & played by the equally awesome and quirky live jazz/cowboy combo band

All right, enough with the SPOF for now.  

Like sand and snow

February makes me all mushy and sentimental. I apologize in advance about that. It's not just Valentine's Day but also our anniversary this month so I have ample occasions for my sentimentality. It's kind of a chicken-egg situation: am I mushy because this is our marriage month? Or did we choose February because of its romantic pull? (Actually, it's a funny story why we chose February, one I'll have to tell sometime when I'm not in parentheses.)

In light of above mentioned mushiness, I'm not just limiting my sentimental posts to one or two days this month. Oh, no. You will not escape that easily. Because, in the name of love, all you need is love, love lifts us up where we belong. Right? 

One of the things I especially appreciate about my relationship with G is our differences. I know it's no huge revelation that--thunder clap--men and women are different. You've got your Mars/Venus comparisons, your unique love languages, your husbands-as-pets philosophies. 

But, by far, my favorite analogy about the transformative power of these differences is within this short film about snow and sand by Kirsten Lepore (recently found via Swiss Miss):

I love you, G. Thanks for sharing you and making me better.

(And sorry for the dead mice I sometimes give in return.)

This 1-minute clip about making the film is awesome, too.

A Modest Proposal ii

The next day I picked up G in his little green car.  He suggested we go up in the canyon for a picnic, his glance darting to the turquoise duffle bag. I had spent the whole night thinking and then early in the morning confided in my good friend next door. My immediate instinct was to postpone the proposal however I could until I got a better grasp of what I wanted.

So we traveled through the canyon, making small talk. I was overly aware of the bag. That stupid bag, that blessed bag.  At Sundance, we parked, grabbed our things (hello, duffle bag companion!), and hiked up the mountain.  We spread out a blanket and chatted about the day, the gorgeous surroundings, school.  In a sudden rush of panic my proposal avoidance system activated.

"Want to take a walk?"  I blurted.

"Sure." G swooped the bag--which had been nestled close to G on the blanket--up to his shoulder.  

We made our way toward a small stream at the foot of Mt. Timpanogos, a wonderfully romantic technicolor scene on this September afternoon.  The mountains seemed to be holding their breath.  G invited me to sit on the grass as he ceremoniously unzipped the duffle bag. [Now I was holding my breath, too.]  This is it, I thought.

He took out two crystal goblets, both wrapped carefully in a frayed blue bath towel, and my favorite sparkling soda.

"What's this, a picnic?" I asked, coyly. And inanely.  As if we hadn't already been calling it a picnic and I hadn't noticed the bag fastened to him all day.

"Uh-huh" G smiled faintly.

We gulped down our drinks, both nervous for our own reasons.  Stalling for time, I asked for a refill and drank it, too.  Do I want this to happen? what's the way forward? Distraction seems much more compassionate than rejection.  And I don't want to reject him. I'm just not sure.  I don't want him to ask unless I'm sure.

"Um...G?"  

"Yeah?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."  I really did.  I was suffering the consequences of the refill. We packed up the bottles and glasses and G replaced them in the bag, careful not to reveal its other contents.  But I thought I could see a bit of light blue velvet.

. . .

Confused? Read the first installment here. There's more to come. Eventually.

Picture taken on my parents' deck, September 1989, on the way to USU's Homecoming.  Oh the hair (both of us!). G's about to laugh and I've got a strange overbite happening. Look at our little young, starry-eyed selves. 

A modest proposal

 Just a little story in honor of my 20th anniversary this week. (I'm a little nervous about this whole heart-on-sleeve storytelling but here goes...) 

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...

Adeste fideles

Yesterday, G left on his surprise post-birthday trip to Utah. I have to say I was so excited it all came together for this well-deserved, long overdue adventure.  After Christmas I contacted a handful of his best buddies from high school to see if they'd be willing to meet up in Park City for a ski weekend to celebrate G's birthday. These are lifelong friends who really get each other, great guys all. Happily, they were all game (and, in fact, enthusiastic) so yesterday Chris flew in from Oregon, Sugata from California, Chuck from Arizona, G from here and they met four more friends who already live there: Mark, Nate, Justin, and Kelly.  Watch out, Park City.

Once he got a seat on the plane, he called to tell me goodbye and thank you, that he made his plane, and that he accidentally took my credit card with him. We were chatting away when in the background I heard a woman say (obviously to G), very clearly, "hi! do you mind if I sit in your lap?" + playful laughter.

Now, maybe there are some situations in travel I'm not aware of where sitting in a strange man's lap (or offering to) would be advisable.  I can't really think of any right now. Or, let's give her the benefit of the doubt...maybe G was accidentally sitting in her seat.  But, still.  It rankled.

I piped up on my end of the line "um, I DO!"

He relayed, "my wife says to tell you she minds."  We all laughed. Hahahahaha.  (Grrrr.)

. . .

It really was funny. Except not really.  

It's been a tough year for the marriage model, fidelity wise.  It feels like every month there's a new scandal about someone (Say it ain't so, Dave! and Tiger. and various governors. and presidential candidates. and friends' husbands.  Say...it...ain't...so.)

I hate that this betrayal happens...especially when it's to people I love.

I hate that with every new story another whisper of a fear enters my marriage heart, despite my trust in G.  I really do trust his love and goodness. Even saying that, the whisper pipes up "that's what all those wives said, too."  

And you know what else? I hate that women feel free to flirt with other people's husbands. We should be better to each other than that.

. . .

Because marriage is a leap of faith. And fidelity (the Latin fides, meaning trust, belief, faith) is the privilege and price of that unique, wholehearted relationship that marriage offers.  

Because this is what should be happening more often, not less:

My grandfather was born and raised on our New Zealand farm. He and my grandmother were married nearly 60 years. Preparing for a photo in the barley, my grandmother lovingly reached up to adjust his hat. This was his last harvest.

Gemma Collier, National Geographic Photo of the Day, 11.04.09