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| Pawnshop wedding rings. Legit. |
I like to regularly remind my husband how lucky he is to
have me in his life. There are many ways I'll do this. Sometimes I use the
selfie approach, where I send him random pictures of myself along with
"you lucky bastard."
And then there's the Dateline approach:
"Good coffee, honey," he'll say, sipping from the
cup I just handed him.
"Yep. And it's not even poisoned," I'll reply as I
pour some cream into mine.
"What?"
"It's not poisoned. You could have one of those evil
wives from Dateline who slowly poisons your food because she wants the pool boy
and all your money. But you don't. This is coffee not served to you by a
psychopathic soulmate."
"...Ok."
I'll smile and give him a big hug. "You are so lucky to
have a wife who doesn't want to kill you."
But seriously, I would never even think of murdering this
guy - even after twenty years. And even if we were rich and had a gorgeous pool
boy. Or, like, maybe a pool.
***
We met when we were seemingly far too young to have a
meaningful relationship. He was in college, living with some weird roommates in
a place with cockroaches. I was sixteen and living in a halfway house for women
in recovery. I had been sober just under two years. I was their youngest
resident ever, there strictly on compassionate grounds (you had to be 18)
because I had nowhere else to go. I had already spent a few scary weeks at the
downtown YM/YWCA, fending off approaches from much older men and safeguarding
my meager belongings from would-be thieves. This place was a huge step up, although
it wasn't perfect by any means. My roommates weren't the friendliest bunch, and
the one across from me was regularly off her meds. And she needed those meds -
believe me.
Then, one night, some guy I barely knew invited me to a
party full of people I did know, so I decided to go. I found out on the bus
ride there that he was a narrow-minded, racist asshole who had a swastika
tattooed on his arm and really liked how white my skin is. Oops. So I told him
in no uncertain terms that I would not be spending any time with him at said
party, but thanks for the invite.
When we got there, I found some friends at a table and sat
down with them. We chatted for a bit and I got up to mingle for a few minutes.
When I got back,
there.
he.
was.
Looking all gorgeous and shit. Sitting at the table and
talking to a friend of mine.
What do I remember most about that night? How we were
immediately drawn to each other. How we talked for hours and never ran out of
things to say. How he seemed to have a real, genuine interest in what was
inside my head and not just what was below it. How, before long, the room
narrowed, the periphery vanished, and all I could see was him.
We moved in together a month later. We signed a lease on a
one bedroom apartment above some drug dealers. It was very romantic.
Before I left the halfway house, the program director sat me
down in an office full of people and tried to yell some sense into me. She told
me I was a naive little girl with no idea what I was getting myself into.
"I know that I'm not happy here. And I know that I'm in
love," I said.
"You're sixteen years old! You don't even
know what love is!" she screamed.
"I beg to differ," I replied. Sixteen-year-olds
know everything, of course.
"You'll lose your spot here and you'll never get it
back because we have a huge waiting list! And then, when things don't work out,
you'll be on your own. This is a big mistake."
"Thank you for everything you've done for me," I
said with tears in my eyes. A part of me knew she could be right; another part was
deeply wounded by her condescending tone and complete negation of my feelings.
It's one thing to try and talk sense into someone you feel is making a bad
decision, another entirely to belittle that person, regardless of her age. And,
me being me, it only furthered my desire to prove her wrong.
***
Sometimes I want to find that program manager and show her
my wedding ring (that we bought at a pawn shop when Intrepid was 6 months old).
I dream of bringing her to this house full of children, filled with happiness,
and containing a certain now-husband who
isn't even poisoned.
I want to tell her about all the times he's held me when
I've cried, and cheered me on when I've needed it most. I want to tell her how
happy he makes me, and I him, and how I still get a little flutter in my heart
when he walks through the door after work.
But I also want her to know that we have had some really
tough times, too. We've been poor, we've been angry; we've endured heartbreak,
stress and loss. We've had fertility woes, health scares, children with special
needs to raise. Life is unscripted and unpredictable, and at times has left us
so raw, wondering how we're going to get through the next day.
But we do. Unbelievably, we do. My theory is that we're
cosmically duct taped to each other. It's invisible because it's cosmic duct
tape, which I've decided is invisible and impossible to break and I'm the boss
of this story so don't even try to argue with me. In the end, we always seem to
emerge stronger than we were before.
I guess my sixteen-year-old self wants Ms. Program Director
to know we made it. But the grownup part of me is ok with letting the whole
thing go. While her approach was worse than a Simon Cowell moment, I'm sure her
heart was in the right place. And, statistically speaking, I realize we're the
anomaly. We are relationship freaks.
I don't know how we made it, I just know we did. Communication, dedication, empathy and love? A willingness to change what isn't
working? An ability to celebrate what is? Recognition of all our
accomplishments because we've come such a long way? I think it's been all of
those things. And duct tape.
He is pretty great, my husband. So, while I joke around a
fair bit about how fortunate he is to have such an amazing wife - ok, I'm not
joking, actually. He's pretty lucky - I have to admit I'm positively smitten
with the guy. That's why I make sure to kiss him every day and serve him the
non-deadly kind of coffee.
See? Best. Wife. Ever.