The Almost Proposal

I learned a tough lesson almost two years ago.

I am thick-skulled and stupid.  Stupid enough to keep God out of my life. 

Not something to be proud of.  I always regret the “reversed,” untraditional, odd pace at which my wife and I fell in love.  I wanted that tingly, love at first sight, I eventually woo and wow her with my wit and charm and ride off into the sunset story that only chick flicks provide. 

But no.

My wife fell in love with me first. 

 

This is really hard for me to admit, because it still bothers me.  It’s not supposed to go like that, right?  

Shakespeare said women “should be wooed and are not made to woo.”  My wife wooed me.  I was such an idiotic ball of stress and insecurities, I couldn’t stick my neck out and try to fall in love with a gorgeous, supportive woman who was my dear friend and always improved me.  The reasons were myiad and flimsy.  I kept waiting for a big cosmic neon sign to appear over her head.   In the meantime I gave ear to whispering doubts:

I’m still young and woefully unprepared to provide any semblance of financial security, should I even be looking for a serious relationship?   

If so, is she "the one?" (assuming such a thing exists) 

If I try, and we don’t work out, I lose a wonderful friend; is it worth the risk? 

Such were the nagging voices in my head.   

Seemed like legitimate concerns, but that was just from my own limited view.  Had I stopped trying to shout down God with my worries, I’m pretty sure things would have gone smoother.

I try to make up for it and tell her (and myself) that:

She loved me first, but I loved her fiercely. 

Maybe I should just say "she loved me first and I love her fiercely"

She still doesn’t believe me when I tell her this, but the night I told her I was in love with her (a great story for another time),

I wanted to propose then and there.

A few things kept me from doing so:

-          She hadn’t met my family, and had no idea what craziness she’d  marry into if she said yes.

-          Her family wasn’t exactly my fan club (they weren’t amused at my apparent wishy-washiness)

-          I hadn’t asked her dad’s permission (a terrifying prospect considering her family’s aforementioned disapproval)

-          I had no ring (I feel like you have to back up something like that with some legit hardware)

-          We were both in the middle of fall semester at different schools in cities 4 hours away from each other.

-          But most importantly, I had a dream proposal  - another great story for another time - (girls have dream weddings, guys have dream proposals… right guys? … right?) lined up (ring included) and I really wanted to set that up for her.  It’s the one thing the guy is left to do all on his own in the entire engagement/wedding/reception process.

So I held my tongue and locked my knees straight and waited.  But what I realize now is that had I just let myself be happy, let go of any misgivings and let myself love her, I might have loved her first.  For now, I just have to be content to love her as fiercely as possible every day and try to make up for lost time.  

Let go.  Let yourself be happy.  Whatever you think your timeline is, stay flexible.  You never know when you’ll find true happiness.

Any other skulls as thick as mine out there?

S

Aimer

aimer. (v.):    1. to like.
                     2. to love.

This French verb always left me a little frazzled.  I took 3 French classes in high school and I could never figure out why the language didn't allow for any discrepancy between the two (in my opinion) drastically different actions.

I love that about English.

You can like something.

You can love something.

A friend of mine gave me a bit of insight into the need for this distinction years ago.  We stopped by her house before going to a rehearsal so she could pick up some things.  She briefly introduced me to her mom, grabbed the stuff and we left.

On our way out the door, she hollered:

"Bye mom, I like you!"

An echoed response came down the hall,

"I like you, too!"

Confused, I inquired on our way to the car, "... Like?"

Smiling to herself, she explained.



"Everybody loves their family," she said; that's a given. "You don't always like them."



My friend is so awesome.  I've looked up to her for a long time, she's an inspiration as a woman of faith, as a writer, and just as a genuinely good person who always leaves you feeling better than you were before.  She has kept that trademark candid honesty, contagious optimism, and love of life - as evidenced on her own blog.  Check it out!

True, our loved ones can drive us crazy sometimes.  We don't always like what they do, but we always love them.  I spent most of my childhood loving but not necessarily liking one of my brothers (we've since become really good friends).  It's important to celebrate and savor those moments when we don't just feel that obligatory familial bond, that genetic tie to our loved ones, but also those instances when we genuinely like them.  We don't just put up with them because they're blood; we can really enjoy their company and seek it out.




How often do you like the people you love? 


And for that matter, when was the last time you were likable?


S

...Get it?

Here's a tip:

If you have to use "get it?" as an addendum to a joke, it's not funny.

I was washing my hands in the bathroom at work when an older man tried to use humor with another guy a few sinks down.

"Oh, this must be another slight against the dance department," he smirked to the poor kid soaping up at the sink.

The kid turned with a quizzical look to see what on earth this man was talking about.  I saw through the mirror as he indicated a sign placed on the wall above the urinals:

"To avoid clogging PLEASE do not flush paper towels."

Get it?   

clogging.

Like dancing.  In wooden shoes.


...Ha.


You feel awkward reading it?  I promise you, it was much worse hearing it out loud.  Oi.

This poor kid at the sink caught on before I did.  Feigning appreciation, he did his best to force a smile and resist rolling his eyes at such lame humor before drying his hands and leaving.

Now, my father has been known to insert a lame pun or two in conversation, to which we would all reply with our false, obligatory laughter.  It's a compulsion for him, and I slip into it occasionally as well.  I think it's a rite of passage when you abandon bachelorhood for marriage and family.

Personally I look forward to that day when I can roll up in the family SUV or minivan to pick up my embarrassed, insecure teens and tweens, put my blinkers on, pop open the car door and usher them into the vehicle as NSYNC and Backstreet Boys blasts from the speakers (which will be even less cool then than it is now).  I yearn for the day I can stand there in all my glory: my stained khaki shorts, baggy multi-colored hawaiian shirt so obviously pilfered off of a rack at goodwill in 1983, black dress socks and plastic sandals covering my pasty yet hairy legs.

Having that dad sucks.

But being that "lame" dad is going to ROCK.

Now, I realize there are readers out there who think their dad is nothing compared to the propensity for humiliation possessed by their mother.  I don't mean to single out dads as the only embarrassing parent; I'm just personally looking forward to becoming that cruel, unforgiving stereotype.  Once you're married, you only have one person to impress, and your kids' reputation is usually expendable.

Mwahaha.



Do you have a tendency for lame puns?  What do you do that embarrasses your loved ones?  Do you relish it as I plan to?



S

Getting to Know You: 25 Confessions

I'm pleasantly surprised to see how much of a following this little project has gotten. 

I feel bad, though; some of you might not know me all that well.  Let's get acquainted, shall we?

1. If my wife and I are chatting in Bulgarian in front of you, 90% of the time we’re just flirting, not bad-mouthing you.  It’s for your own protection, trust me.
2. I love the Despicable Me minions almost as much as I hate chimp movies, or really anything that puts clothes on an animal.
3. Hexus, the gooey monster from Ferngully, was creepiest to me as a tree.
4. I love music with movements; if that makes the tracks longer, all the more to enjoy.
5. 60% of the time I’m the one to blow dry and straighten Mrs. B’s hair, and I'm ashamed to say I'm getting pretty good at it.  Who needs cosmetology school?
6. I get teary at some movies but have never actually overflowed into real tears.(all of those movies involve sports, war, or human rights issues.)
7. I was addicted to soda and weaned myself off of it by using chocolate milk as a substitute. Problem is, now I can’t live without chocolate milk.
8. I can turn my feet back 120 degrees and walk like a mutilated penguin.  Feet backwards, moving forwards.  Gross party trick.
9. My handwriting is somewhere between Arabic script and broken cursive chicken scratch.
10. I dread going bald more than any other part of ageing.  My one genetic grace is my thick hair, and my mother’s side of the family has me worried about how long it will last.
11. I will eat a whole loaf of French bread in one sitting if you give me brie cheese and grapes to go with it.
12. I can’t watch Ratatouille without eating something, usually bread, brie and grapes.
13. Fellowship is my favorite LOTR movie.
14. My fastest mile time is a pathetic 6:30.  I got it in 9^th grade and haven’t been able to come close since.
15. I was the youngest freshman at my high school – 13 years old, 90 lbs. wet, a titan of raw insecurity.
16. The longest I ever kept a journal was about 8 months during my mission in Bulgaria.
17. I’m a terrible swimmer.  I only stayed on swim team for a summer because of my best friend and his cute sister.
18. I always feel most centered when I’m sketching/painting to a Coldplay album.
19. I don’t dance well.  The only time I ever felt confident enough to "bust a move" was when I was little enough to dance on the pool table in the basement to Michael Jackson’s “Jam” and “Black or White.” Pretty sure I was 7.
20. I let my wife pluck and shape my eyebrows once.  Each brow on a separate night.  Ouch.  What a weekend.
21. Yes, I have a playlist of christian rock on grooveshark, what of it?
22. Humans should not be forced to live anywhere that reaches over 80 degrees. I hate the heat.
23. My wardrobe mostly consists of T-shirts, 4 of which have comic book icons or logos (Captain America, Flash, Green Lantern, and, of course, Superman).  I try to do the laundry so my wife won’t ever fold all four in a row and realize what she married.
24. My wife looks sexiest when she steals my Superman pajama pants.
25. Thank goodness no one can hear/see my behavior behind the wheel on a bad day.

25 stream-of-consciousness factoids aren't enough to really get to know someone, but it's a good first step.  Besides, you KNOW you have questions now.  Feel free to comment.


S

Sports and Cars and Hobbit Holes

I think I'm, in many ways, a shame to my sex. 

Sports are lost on me.  I’d rather play than watch, and I’m not good at playing.  The last time I actively watched the Super Bowl was John Elway’s final game when he took the Broncos to victory.  I was in fourth grade, and sat on the floor in front of the TV coloring fake promo ads with Crayola markers during the long periods of inactivity on the field.

I know even less about cars.  I like certain designs (I loved my Hot Wheels), but when it comes to what’s under the hood… I don’t know what GT means and why it’s so desirable (is it?) I never really thought this would be a huge problem, until I met my B.  She can i.d. a car coming on the opposite lane at night by the shape of its headlights.  She knows what makes and models to avoid, she knows tire scams and body work. 

How does she know this? 

Her dad. 

 (This is in no way exaggerated.  Dude's ripped.)

My burly, terrifying, intimidating, barrel-chested, tree-trunk-armed, puzzle-loving father-in-law knows cars. 

He is one of the most proficient auto body men in the state.  He knows his cars.

Both my wife and I are a lot like our fathers.  But my dad is a theatre major turned Air Force JAG.  What skills have I inherited?  Well, let’s just say regaling mechanics with an explanation of tort law or reciting the Chorus’s opening soliloquy to Shakespeare’s Henry V won’t save you anything on an oil change. 

Which is why I felt so eager to prove my tough, rugged, manly providerhood to B. while we were engaged.  She was living a four hour drive away before we were married (long distance sucks) and in addition to getting wedding plans thrown together, was finishing her last semester at college before transferring up to a university here, studying for her finals, getting overworked at her job, and babysitting our niece.  B. was frazzled.  She had enough on her plate that I was just unable to help with either due to distance or incompetency. 

But one thing I knew how to do, I had practically been raised to do, was move.  Honestly, the wedding was a breeze compared to the pressures of moving.  It was my responsibility to find somewhere for us to live.  I looked and looked and researched and asked around and visited several apartments near campus, trying to find something that would fit our budget.  Some were nice, some were awfully cramped, most were expensive, I was gunning for a basement apartment to save on air conditioning.  I also wanted to have something lined up that we could BOTH look at and decide on together on one of B’s infrequent weekend visits. 

We had one that looked good, but it got snagged before we had a chance.  Just when it looked like we’d have to bite the bullet and pay extra to live on campus, a co-worker told me a friend of hers was looking to move and needed buyers.  I met them, I loved it, when I saw the rent I could have died it was such a steal.  We took it, and we’ve loved our basement apartment for over a year now.  It’s a hobbit hole with a low ceiling, so our tall friends hate coming over, but it’s got open space, it’s affordable, it’s home.  

Our home.

Our first home.  

And who found it?  This guy.  I am a man!  I put a roof over my girl's head.  Well, actually I put an entire house over her head, but that includes a roof.  Just when all seemed lost, we were blessed at the last second with the perfect home to start our marriage.

I realize I’m not the typical class-A alpha male eating meat off the bone, talking cars with the boys over a few beers and staying well-informed about football or fantasy football. 

But I don’t care. 

I waste enough time as it is without following sports.  Although I am proud to say I gave up video games when I discovered girls.  All I care about in a car is if it will get me and B safely home without guzzling gas.  I may not subscribe to the typical “macho” creed, but I’m a man. 

I’m her man. 

And man, that’s enough for me.

Any other atypical bros out there, can I get an Amen?

S

Life's Persistant Questions

B. and I stole away to one of our early bird weekday dinner dates recently (cuz we’re just that cool).  I love these dates.  Our schedules with work and school virtually eliminate any semblance of a weekend, so we take time together when we can, and I’ve learned to savor the relative calm and ease of getting food early during unusual restaurant hours.  

Over our nutritious meal of BBQ burger, fried chicken tenders, and fries we started talking about where we are in life, where we’ve been, what plans we have and how they always seem to be changing, just taking inventory on each other.

I sat there as B. watched basketball and nibbled at her fried poultry

and just drank her in. 

This happens every once in a while, where I just have to stop and breathe in everything she is.  She caught me staring and elbowed me with a wry grin, and we began talking again about the future. 

Are we in the right majors?  Will our careers have anything remotely to do with what were studying now?  Where will we live after we graduate?  Are we going to travel?  When?  How will we pay for it?  What will our first out-of-college jobs be?  Is she going to grad school?  Where?  Studying what?  Will I make it in the competitive market of commercial art/design?  Will a career in illustration be enough, not just financially, but personally - will I want to do more than just doodle for money?  Am I meant to do something more meaningful or essential to society?  Should I consider law school?  Would I be happy with that in the long run? Do we dare entertain the thought of attending grad school and law school simultaneously?  Will kids work into that picture?  How?  When?  Will we be good parents?  Will we be able to provide for our family?

...

Even now, as we near the end of our undergraduate studies, we don’t have all the answers. 

And we realized, that’s okay.


So I stole some of her chicken and we went back to our basketball commentary.

We can still be uncertain about the future; we don’t have to have a fixed idea on what we want.  Life has its curveballs and we’ve got to roll with the punches (insert other sports themed cliché here)

I guess I’ve had this attitude for a while, but what made this conversation so novel was that we both felt not only begrudgingly accepting, but happy about it.  Really, truly happy to have a lot of questions – together.

Here’s to not having all the answers! 


May we all have someone with which to bask in life’s unpredictability.

In the meantime, just have a burger and enjoy the chaos.


S

Shopping and Dropping

Impulse buys. 

We all have them.

I had one the other day.  I’m getting into John LeCarre novels lately, and there’s one with a great cover illustration at Barnes & Noble that I’ve had my eye on for a while (my major gives me full license to judge books by their cover, and I'm loving the graphic style that Matt Taylor brought to the series).  Every time I walked by it, flipped through the pages, thumbed that coveted cover, I would rationalize my way out of buying it.

…I could get it at the library if I’m so keen to read it…

…If I love the cover so much I can just google it and print it out…

…There are other things, more important uses for $15…

Why did I cave this week?

Let’s just say I had a bad day.  Something I was gunning for fell through, throwing off my schedule and my mood in a major way. 

What to do?

I didn’t want to drown my sorrow in food that I’d have to run off later. 

I didn’t have time to go to the gym and work out the frustration.

I had twenty minutes to kill before picking up B. from class and as the car was coming up on Barnes,  on an impulse I turned into the parking lot. 

The next thing I knew I was back in the parking lot on page 4.

B. was tickled to see I had “actually bought something” for myself. 

Every once in a while, she’ll get a little something for herself after payday as a treat, but I, the pathological sourpuss, won’t bite on such occasions.  She buys on positive impulses – when she’s in a good mood.  Normal, right? 

But when I’m off work, blissfully enjoying my weekend, my wallet seems to clam up. When I’m feeling great, I want to go swim or hike or do something that usually doesn’t require much cash.  The  proper impetus to crack open my bank account seems to be a really sour mood. 

Why am I this way?   

Is it a guy thing?  Maybe dudes are more prone to buy when we’re feeling low, and women shop more when they’re loving life:

Women shop until they drop.

Men shop because they drop.

Maybe…

I’m keeping the book, regardless.

What was your last impulse buy?

What did you get?  Why did you get it?

S

Checks and Balances

This morning I woke up at 5:20 am.

I'm an incurable morning person.

...But I can cure myself until my alarm at 6:15.  So I rolled over and dozed for an hour.

I got up early this morning and was immediately wide awake.  I love that feeling.  That aware, alertness, daring the world to bring it on.

I leaned over, kissed B. and got up to wash my face and throw on some clothes.  Almost immediately B. snatched my free pillow and snuggled up to it.  She says it smells like me, I think she just wants some free cushion.

I love our little morning routines.

I went out to the living room, found my shoes under scattered laundry and got ready to go.

Then, as I packed my leftovers for lunch I spotted it.

Exhibit A.

Evidence of our tenuous treaty as an imperfect couple.

My wife is lactose intolerant.  But she loooooves cereal.  Crispix especially.  And let's face it, if you have cereal, you MUST have milk with it.  So my wife bathes her cereal in milk and then scoops out the swimmers, leaving the liquid white pool behind in the bowl.  She then proceeds to leave the milk bowl out on the counter.  When we're both home, I have no problem finishing her milk for her.  We have no cat, so it's left to me to empty the saucer.  (what IS a saucer?  I just know cats drink milk from it)

But this bowl had been poured late last night, after I had brushed my teeth and was getting into bed.  But sweet B. didn't pour the milk out into the sink.  She left it out on the counter.  Again.  She always does this; if I'm not there to empty the bowl, it sits unemptied.

This used to bother me.  It used to reeeeally annoy me that (A) so much milk has gone to waste and (B) it is left to me to either pour it down the sink or, if there are enough of the little bottom-of-the-box cereal particulates floating around (she calls them "scooby snacks") that, to prevent drain cloggage (no disposal), I have to flush the milky mixture down the toilet.

It used to bother me.

Why, you ask, am I so benevolent and forgiving?


Because every relationship has checks and balances.


I have a little forgetful tendency that sends shivers down B.'s spine.

Actually, it usually gives her goosebumps too.

When we shower (hehe) she usually hops out first to get started on drying/straightening/curling her hair and I buckle down and focus on any missed patches while shaving.  After I've thoroughly inspected my freshly scraped face, I turn off the water, grab a towel, and make a Home Alone face in the mirror as I apply aftershave.

What I DON'T do is push down the shower valve.  This means that the next time someone (i.e., B.) turns on the water, rather than pouring from the bath faucet to test the temperature comfortably on her hand, the water left to cool overnight in the pipes sprays out of the shower head down her unsuspecting back.

Oops.

Exhibit B.

I swear, I don't do this on purpose.  I try to remember.  I try to be nice.  She tries to pour out her milk.

But sometimes we forget.

I love that we can check each other with our forgetfulness.  It's a good reminder that neither of us is perfect.  Besides, the day I don't come home to a bowl of milk left out will be a sad day indeed.


I'll probably have to just shower at the gym.


What's your check?  What do you tolerate in others?  What do they tolerate in you?


S

On Flexibility

I can touch my toes.  Usually.  That’s about as flexible as I’m likely to ever be.  But all yoga and tai chi and stretches aside, Mrs. B and I have had to make some changes since getting married and it’s required some flexibility on both our parts. 

We recently had to give up hopes for a San Francisco trip this summer and focus our money elsewhere.  Elsewhere means school.  Summer school has been thrust upon both of us this year.  As she finishes her 7 week crash course in chemistry, I will begin my 6-hour, 4 days a week regimen of my least favorite part of my major: figure drawing.   

And we can’t even suffer at the same time, no, we've got to tag team it so we never get to have a vacation together!  Sheesh!  So, in order to cover our summer tuitions, the beaches of sunny CA slip from our fingers. 

This trip was inspired by a rewards system we had set up for Mrs. B to kick her nasty coca-cola addiction.  Not that Coke is nasty, but if she went without it, she would experience migraine-like symptoms.  Dependency is no fun.  So, our incentive plan was born:

After 3 weeks cola-free:               I treat her to filet mignon. 

After 6 weeks cola-free:               $100 shopping spree

After 9 weeks cola-free:               Weekend trip to San Francisco!!!

But alas.  Bills and two tuition payments and car registration and rent and tires and a pile of other things quickly depleted our SF fund.  I feel bad for my wife, of whom I could not be prouder.  She went through weeks of hellish headaches and withdrawals and is rewarded with chem labs and exams.  But life goes on.  We adapt.

Indeed we do.  My plan, upon first entering the Visual Arts department at my school, was to work from home as a freelance illustrator and be a stay at home dad before the kid(s) start(s) school while my lovely wife pushes through med school and goes into oncological research. 

But things change, and we must be flexible.  Medicine no longer interests my wife, and the profession itself seems to be in a precarious place with insurance systems changing so dramatically.  She wants to be present in our kids' lives, as do I.  And I've realized the true “feast or famine” nature of freelance work and have begun seeking more steady work.  Never go into the arts for the money, but if you’ve already committed enough of your bachelor’s to it, try to find the most profitable career path within its parameters. 

Plans change, life changes you, so change with it, I say.  I’m not the man I was going into school, why on earth would my plans be the same as I leave?

How do you stay flexible with life?  How does it flex you?