The Daily Writes

One Tissue

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I have been married over five years now to an amazing and fairly particular man. It’s pretty much a miracle that we got married in the first place, since we are the Grand Tetons of stubbornness. We both have a “few” issues with control (note sarcasm), and we have incredibly different personalities. I had to pry my way into his life through uncomfortable tactics like changing up the way he loaded the dishwasher, and rebelling against his strong belief in “standard towel folding practice.” He proved himself to be the most tenacious man I know by holding steady in his pursuit of me through what he calls “The Grover”; Near…Far…Near…Far.

Marriage is a particularly fascinating dance. One of the best truths I’ve ever heard spoken about what makes for a good marriage comes from an older couple from New Hampshire. A craggy pair of old school Italians with a great sense of humor, when asked what they think the secret to a happy marriage is the wife answered, “It’s simple, you can’t both want a divorce at the same time. Because honey, you will want a divorce, trust me, but as long as you don’t both want it at the same time things are fine.” The husband nodded, “Yep, she’s right. You can’t both want a divorce at the same time. That’s the secret.”

As I type, my husband asked me to pass him a tissue. In the early days I’d give him the whole box and he would get frustrated. “I just need one,” he’d say. Really? How could you only need one tissue and why is a box not more thoughtful? Tonight, slightly older and wiser to the ways of being a wife, I hand him a single tissue and he is happy.

 

It cleaned out the Crap

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My husband’s colonoscopy was excellent for our marriage. How could that be possible? I was anxious for a few days before the procedure, especially considering that he would need to fast for 24 hours prior. My husband with no food is no fun at all.

For the last few months’ things have been rough. Marriage is that way, rolling hills of happiness and contentment mixed with more pronounced cliffs of challenge and frustration. We’ve been in the steep cliff zone for some time now, new baby, grief, work stress, will do that to a team.

So when I read the prep instructions and realized there was a fasting period I thought, perfect, this will make for a good week. I battened down the hatches and prepped for solo care of our child and for a crabby version of the man I married. I was totally caught off guard when not only was he happy, he seemed emotionally lighter (sorry, this word works best). He was sweet, sincere and 100% less combative than he has been for months.

I marveled at him and said, “Wow, you should fast more often”. He laughed but I continued, “Seriously, I think that you’ve cleaned out more than your colon in prep for this. Maybe there was something stuck in your gut that needed to get out.” He looked dubious and said only, “I’m just too weak to resist”.

Whatever the cause, the prep for the colonoscopy reconnected us. I saw a glimpse of us as the more carefree couple we can sometimes be. Next time we hit a sticking point in our relationship, I am going to suggest a fast.

Flesh Colored Freedom

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First of all, there’s a hole in the crotch. That seemed odd. Then it is flesh colored, I don’t even know where to begin with my thoughts on flesh colored undergarments. Let’s just say I don’t feel my sexiest while wearing them.

I don’t usually sweat in a lingerie dressing room. Yesterday I did. I swore I would never wear Spanx or any type of compression device. In the past, it seemed like donning something meant to suck me in meant I was failing at staying in shape. It was a mental hurdle for me that up until yesterday I was able to avoid.

But there I was, in the quiet dressing room with horrible fluorescent lighting and bad elevator music, sweating and tugging to get myself into this odd contraption so I could “smooth out” a few spots under my new black dress.

Tomorrow night, when I’m letting lose and having some fun, I’ll feel good in my black dress and my new found affinity for Spanx and flesh colored lingerie.

A Forever Love

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Tuesday night I drove down Portola and was treated to a panoramic of San Francisco. I had a physical reaction, a response in my gut as I took in the view. I love this city. It is the place that I struggled with and explored and eventually lived in while figuring out who the hell I am. I dated dozens of men while single in this city and eventually met my partner. I birthed a baby in this city. The relationship I have with San Francisco is one I don’t question; it will be with me for the rest of my life. It’s a love or love deal for me, there hasn’t been any hate in 17 years. There is some aggravation at what I see as growing pains, and at people who may be less susceptible to absorbing the beautiful soul of the City by the Bay. I feel confident that with its extremes, San Francisco will shake loose those who are skimming the surface, who are here for reasons that aren’t in keeping with the backbone of this town.

The Junkyard Dog

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I had an excellent therapist several years back. She helped me through a very difficult time in my life. We talked about my perpetual single state, the challenges of having a high powered career, the difficulties of unraveling pent up feelings regarding my parents bad marriage. And of course, the anxiety that accompanied all of it.

We did a lot of visualizing and during one meeting we put a form to the anxiety to see if we could deflate the feelings a bit. With my eyes closed I imagined a junkyard dog. It was gruesome to look at and fierce in behavior. Did you see Cujo? This dog was like that but worse. We didn’t stop at the visual, we went on to identify the characteristics of the beast. It was tenacious, aggressive, relentless and mad as all hell. It was one nasty animal.

Immediately I remember saying, “Let’s kill it,” thinking that the mental destruction of this dog would eliminate some of the anxiety in my life at the time. “No,” my therapist said. “You cannot kill this dog. Scary as it is the dog is here to stay. You need to figure out a way to deal with it.”

This stayed with me. I realized that I will never eliminate the anxiety in my life and that it will likely be something I struggle with in varying degrees until I die. But it was powerful somehow to acknowledge that. To understand that I could feel it, work with and live with it.

It’s probably been a decade since that meeting and I can still see my junkyard dog clear as day. It is still one nasty, miserable creature, but occasionally I can get him to sit, or stop barking. Or on particularly good days, to go to some far corner of the junkyard and leave me in peace.