A few months ago I was walking home from work along a side street of Manhattan. Casually strolling towards me was a distinguished man and woman who looked to be in their mid-seventies.
They were holding hands. I was holding my cell phone.
They were quietly talking to each other through matching warm smiles. I was not-so quietly yelling at my husband through the receiver.
The casual pace with which this couple strolled suggested they had not a care in the world. I, on the other hand, was feeling burdened by every care in the world as I ranted into the phone about whatever debacle had occurred in my life that day.
As the couple drew closer, gradually closing the gap between us, the path became too narrow to accommodate all three of us, and soon we were entangled in that awkward step-to-this-side-step-to-that-side dance New Yorkers get stuck in when trying to politely share a confined space. Toning down my fury long enough to acknowledge present circumstances, I shimmied to the right to give the pleasant couple room to pass. They simultaneously stepped to the same side, indicating I should pass. I waved them on with insistence, as if to say, You seem happy. I’m miserable. Please, go first. The kindly couple, however, remained fixed in place, more than happy to give me first passage. I nodded appreciatively, eager to resume my ranting to my husband on the phone, and moved forward.
I always know the exact moment love officially strikes me clear and hard. The world actually goes silent. I can’t help but smile. My eyes light up. And most importantly, I shut up. Because in that very moment, no matter how ridiculous it sounds, I’m rendered speechless since there’s only one truth: I’m alive and I love you and I know it and that’s all there is to it.
To be perfectly honest, the only food recipe I have is one for
disaster. My husband and I found that out the hard way. We hadn’t been
married very long, and I wanted to make a delicious home-cooked meal of steak
and potatoes. I put the steak under the broiler, waited a reasonable
amount of time and then opened my oven door to 12-inch flames. I
screamed, what else could I do, but my husband simply strolled over to
the fire and blew it out. In his sweet way he told me it would be fine,
we could eat the potatoes. He also said, don’t worry about cooking
anymore, we could eat out.
It's no secret that some of us urban dwellers face commitment issues. Embrace them, even. The greener grasses and more infinite infinity pools are a form of optimism. Some of us arrested developers avoid opportunities (read: obligations) by holding out for the perfect job, the perfect relationship. But perhaps getting stuck between a responsibility rock and a commitment place isn’t so bad.
Once upon a time, when my future husband and I had just started dating,
he called me one Saturday morning to see what I was up to. I was in the
car with my friend Phoebe and a trunk full of laundry.