Posts Tagged ‘marriage’

how do you choose

One life from another? One path, one career, one place to call home?

I’ve never been one for metaphors. I’m sort of a you-get-what-you-see kind of a gal. I’m all easy-to-understand colloquialisms. Direct. Simple, even. Literal. I lack mystery, I lack intrigue. I don’t write poetically, I don’t even know how to. I end sentences with prepositions. And start them with conjunctions. I’m not eloquent and that’s okay.

Moving back to my hometown is so bittersweet. On the one hand, it’s exactly what I want and I can’t imagine a better life than the one I can lead there. On the other hand, leaving New York somehow feels like some intense failure. Leaving New York without having accomplished…I don’t even know–some level of success, fame, fortune, something!

I have not lived in my hometown as an adult. Ever. So, realistically I have no idea what to expect. It’s possible that we will be earth-shatteringly, ridiculously, unbelievably happy there (I hope!). But, it’s just as possible that we will get there and be like, wait what? What the fuck is this?

You weigh these giant things (housing, transportation, family, education) and make pros and cons lists and try to imagine where you and your family will be happy and inspired. And, then you just jump. You stop thinking about the lists, you stop concerning yourself with all the things you’ll leave behind and focus, instead, on all the things you have to look forward to.

Then, in a state of total confusion and anxiety, you remind yourself that it is not wise to focus solely on what will be better or else you doom yourself to disappointment and depression. For, it is true that you will be overjoyed by the ease of grocery shopping. But, you will be equally dismayed by the non-co-op prices that will keep you from ever buying spices or fancy cheeses again.

And, so. Life. Life at its very best and its very worst. Present becomes past and future becomes present. And, past becomes present in my case. If you get what I mean. Oh, it’s all so confusing and a jumble of emotions. And soooo muCH STRESS! Just gobs and gobs of it. No matter how much you plan ahead. No matter how far in advance you begin the process of packing up your life and purging your past. No matter how many outings you make in preparation for the big goodbye. No matter how many farewells you amass. It will never be enough and it will always feel like too much.

And, so. You can’t win. Or, if you look at it in a different light: you can’t lose. If it will never be enough, stop trying to make it so. And, then magically, the stress sort of falls away. We will be back in New York–this is not the last time we will be in this city. And, in fact, coming back as a tourist allows much more room to do all of the things you want to do when you are stressed out and working too hard and overburdened by a crazy life. Tourists have all the time in the world. Nowhere to go and everyone to see. So, tea at The Plaza a la Eloise will have to wait. The famous Brooklyn Pizza off the J street Q train can happen next year. Whatever. It’s fine.

For now, it’s all about getting out and enjoying the process (as much as is humanly possible). And, let’s not kill each other in the process, husband. Okay? Because wow, people aren’t kidding when they say moving is tough on a marriage. All those big decisions and two people–each with their own attachments and ways of dealing with stress, each with their own expectations and ways of communicating. And, wow. It’s not easy. It is, in fact, quite difficult.

 

alone not loneliness

I went from a commune–a house with anywhere from 20-25 people, where I shared a room with four girls–to a college dorm with a roommate and dozens of women close by, to roommates in a teensy city apartment, to living with my partner.

When my husband is out of town I don’t sleep. I don’t mean I have trouble sleeping, I mean I lose hours and hours of sleep.

On the first night we slept in our current apartment it became clear that we could hear everything from our downstairs neighbors. A cough, a sneeze, the telephone ringing. My husband very nearly cried. He was sure we would have to move immediately. I loved it. Noise. People sounds–all the time. It felt comforting. It felt like home.

The thing I love about New York is that you can feel like you’re in a giant community, surrounded by people–but, still be all alone. If I scream, I will be heard. If I’m in trouble, there will be help. But, I’m also anonymous and invisible. Alone with my thoughts, separate and individual.

The thing I was always so terrified of in the country was that sense of being all alone. Helpless and vulnerable. No one for miles. Just darkness and woods.

In the city, you almost never get that feeling. There is something so comforting about the 4am bar closing. It means people are out and about until the wee hours of the morning. You can ride the subway at 3am and it’s really not as sketchy as you might think. It’s still super crowded at midnight and even 1am can sometimes feel like rush hour heading into the city.

In 2005, we moved to Astoria, a crummy little apartment off of 30th avenue. We thought we were moving to this quaint little “suburb” borough of NYC but as it turns out, Astoria has it’s very own vibrant nightlife. It’s no East Village, in terms of ambience, but I might go so far as to say it’s more raucous and possibly more populated on any given warm, summer evening.

The sidewalk cafe’s turn into bars, the restuaruants all open their windows and spill onto the street–there is a legitimate and bourgeoning “Euro-scene” there. People come from Jersey, Connecticut, Philly and (gasp!) Manhattan even, to hang out in these places that feel a whole lot like the cafes of Europe. There really isn’t a Manhattan equivalent. All the restaurants are Greek or Italian, and let me tell you about the quality of seating you get if you speak neither Greek nor Italian. It’s a real bummer and the hosts have no problem being totally upfront about it. “You speak Greek? No? Okay. You wait.” The food is well worth the hour and a half delay. Especially since they bring trays of wine around to the dozens of loiterers waiting for tables. It’s a brilliant plan. You’ve already started on the wine, you’re tipsy by the time you sit down. You order way more than you can eat and, obviously, you have to have another carafe of the house white!

You can spot the regulars from a  block away. They walk, arm in arm, not a care in the world, strolling down the street. They breeze right in, kiss the waiters, grab glasses of wine, smile and are whisked off to their table. Eating at the Greek restaurants in Astoria is a little like showing up to a family reunion that isn’t your family. “Oops. I think perhaps my kin are in the hotel next door. But, what the hell. You’re food looks way better. I think I’ll stay.”

When we first moved to Park Slope I was actually kind of freaked out by the neighborhood. I mean, all those babies and dogs?! Well, actually that did kind of freak me out. But, really it was the dark, vacant streets. Seriously, this neighborhood is shut down by 9pm, even on a Saturday. And, unlike a lot of other parts of the city, the residential streets are really separate from the commercial zones so those sidewalks are particularly empty. It took me quite a few months to stop looking behind me every half a block, nervous I was being followed. Now, I laugh out loud thinking about my initial fear of this bourgeois hood.

I guess what I am trying to say is that the thing that a lot of people complain about–cramped living quarters, folks stacked on top of one another, busy streets, crowded sidewalks–those are the things that most endear New York to me. Those are the things that I would miss most. That feeling of closeness and family and belonging amongst strangers. The incredible ability to be both alone but never alone.

seven things i love about my husband

1. He is the most honest human on the planet. Almost to a fault (not like, ugh, I wish he was a liar but, maybe a teeny white lie wouldn’t hurt…?). He is good and he is ethical (maybe it’s a journalist thing?) and he will always adhere to his moral compass. Even when it is so very tempting to be bad.

2. He is hilarious. And witty. It’s not immediately obvious because he is so well-mannered but he is a total goofball and the most fun person I have ever known.

3. He is up for anything. He is adventurous but practical, which is the best of both worlds because it means he dreams big and plans accordingly. I don’t think I have booked my own flight in ten years. If we get divorced I will be seriously lacking in holiday-planning skills. I will live out my days as a couch potato.

4. He is scary smart. Like, so intelligent that sometimes I get a tiny bit self-conscious about my vocabulary (or lack thereof) and the way I stumble through sentences and forget words or just lose track of what I’m actually trying to say. But, then he tells me that I’m brilliant and I know he really believes it because he is ALWAYS honest, even when you don’t want him to be, and so I feel better.

5.  He is really good at making the people around him feel loved. He tells me every day how much he loves and appreciates me. He calls out all the things I do and doesn’t ever take me for granted.

6. He lets me be me. He loves my idiosyncrasies and never makes me feel bad about the parts of my personality that I see as faults or flaws. He finds it adorable that I don’t know common American phrases. When I say things like, “Happy as a crab,” he cackles. Then listens when I defend my position because, really, crabs DO seem much happier than clams.

7. I love watching him with our daughter because I know that she has the best father in the whole entire world (kind, patient, hard-working, intelligent, hilarious, creative) and I am so grateful that he is the person I chose to create a human with. We are so lucky, she and I.

 

marriage

It took five years for my boyfriend to convince me that marriage might be an okay thing.

I had never pictured myself getting married. I hate white dresses. Not a big fan of dresses in general. I want nothing to do with diamonds and the whole idea of being engaged definitely did (and does) not appeal to me. He, on the other hand, had always envisioned getting married.

About a year into our relationship I told him that if he proposed I would break up with him. Sounds dramatic but, really, I just hated the idea of being surprised by such a huge question and then being put on the spot to make such a huge decision. This is not to say that I don’t understand the draw of the proposal for some people. I think it can be incredibly romantic and sweet and it makes some folks really, really happy.

For me, I’d prefer to be the one proposing. Scratch that, what I would really prefer is a conversation. You know, “Do you want to get married? Is that interesting/appealing to you?” Something like that.

Marriage ain’t no joke. It’s what “bwings us togeder today…dat bwessed awangment, dat dweam wifin a dweam…” Sorry. Couldn’t help it. The Princess Bride clergyman will never be outdone.

I was saying…marriage…it’s a (theoretically) serious commitment by TWO (usually) people. As in, this is not something to be entered into alone. You should really talk about that shit before you make the decision to do it.

I mean, I think that when people propose they’re pretty confident in their partners’ answer. And, for others, there has even been a conversation about it — probably a sort of vague, roundabout one.

We can’t really remember how it all went down. We were sitting in our living room. It was a Saturday or a Sunday and we’d just finished a late brunch at home (huevos rancheros, maybe?) We were sipping bloody mary’s and one of us brought it up. Which one? We can’t remember. Not because we were drunk. Just because, well, it doesn’t really matter.

“You wanna get married?” someone asked.

“Hmm. I don’t know, do you?” the other responded.

“I mean, sure. Yeah, that sounds pretty good. Great even. I mean, I really love you. I think that’s why you get married,” someone said.

“Shit. Okay, yeah. YEAH! This is awesome. I’m in. I really love you, too,” the other replied.

“Right. And, we’ve talked about the commitment part. It’s us. For good. Or, at least for a good long time.”

“Yeah, and our lives are already totally entangled. I mean, we bought a turntable and a t.v. together. We’ll have to talk about who gets what in the divorce.”

The next day we went to Tiffany’s and picked out simple gold bands. He paid for mine and I paid for his. If you’ve ever been to Tiffany’s (which we hadn’t) it’s a whole experience. I mean, they don’t mess around. We figured we’d splurge on the rings and bequeath them to our offspring. It may be the only thing of value they inherit.

A classic gold ring. I’m not sure there’s a better heirloom to pass down. I got a gold band (years later) from my great uncle after he passed away. It was engraved October, 1910. Exactly 99 years before we were married.

“When’s the big day?” Adam, the sweet, mild-mannered Tiffany’s employee inquired.

“Oh, we’re getting married. We’re not having a wedding. We’re just doing the whole, you know, marriage part. Skipping the rest,” we responded.

“I see,” he said. We regretted it immediately. Couldn’t we have come up with some wonderful lie? The poor guy didn’t know what to talk about. Clearly, his entire conversational repertoire was reliant upon people having, like, real weddings!

“Are you pregnant?” my principal asked upon my return to work. “Is that why you snuck off and got married last week?”

“Nope. Not allowed to ask that, Eileen. But, nope. Not pregnant. Just married,” I responded.

“But. What about the wedding? What about your families?” she continued. “Won’t they be mad?”

As it turned out there were a few people in our lives who were a bit sad. Not mad, just bummed to miss the moment. You know, that beautiful ‘I do’ moment. But, they got over it and we threw a party a year later. No fuss, no stress, just a big celebration so everyone could come together and eat and drink and dance.

It was perfect. For us.