B. and I had a good conversation with my baby sister the other night. I never really called her my "baby" sister when we were growing up, but I've lately adopted the title to nurture my newfound sense of denial.
She's growing up.
It was hard enough to come home after 2 years abroad to find that the tan ten-year-old tomboy I left was now wearing makeup and oggling Daniel Radcliffe. Now she's passed through the gauntlet of high school freshman year. And it's just...
Weird.
We talked about, like, mature things. Not gross stuff, just things that were pretty deep for a high school sophomore. She was able to understand and expound on concepts and subjects that would stump many people I know in college. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised, she's different; she's always been a bit above the general backbiting and drama characteristic of her female peers (which I and my bros take full credit for) Girls are dramatic, all the time around boys mellowed her out.
She's the one sister. One girl to five boys, poor thing was born to be outnumbered.
This isn't the first time I've had to shift from seeing my siblings as younger underlings in desperate need of knowledge and noogies to intellectual peers. Well, peers is a generous term. The two brothers between sis and I dwarf my intelligence easily. They take AP classes like it's cake, they watch Kahn Academy youtube videos to keep up on calculus. They have the minds of engineers; even music is more mechanical and architectural to them than it is expressive or emotional.
Now, just in case you think I'm related to absolute geniuses who spend their free time splicing genes and curing cancer, let me be clear. They're smart, they're older, we can talk about deeper, more mature subjects. But one beatboxes incessantly, quotes Nacho Libre, and spurts random AC/DC lyrics without provocation. The other is an obsessive gamer and, I'm ashamed to say, a Brony. Both giggle through episodes of Adventure Time like four-year-olds. I know this because my four-year-old brother giggles with them.
I remember avoiding including the brother closest to my age in any event or gathering with my high school friends. I was "too cool." I couldn't have my home life and my social life mixing (see "Keep Your Friends Close"). My parents forced me to take him, and I was surprised to find he fit in really well. It was fun having him around (not that I'd ever tell the punk). Sure he cramped my style around my girlfriend, but no more than my bros who weren't related to me did.
He was becoming less a little brother and more of a... friend. Weird. We had been sworn enemies since he was about three and now here we were with our separate social circles, getting along.
My brothers and I really became friends in the nebulous year between when I graduated high school and when I left for Europe. When Dark Knight came out, I went with my bros. We started hanging out, replaying old N64 games and just spending time together. Even in middle school and high school, I would take my siblings out for ice cream, to a movie, whatever struck our fancy. Little one-on-one outings, just to get to know them in a setting outside of home.
Baby sis was probably the most frequent guest on these impromptu outings. My "sister dates" usually involved just walking over to the Base theater, getting her some candy and seeing whatever latest Abigail Breslin movie came out. We'd talk on the way over, she'd confide in me all the drama of being ten, mean teachers, tough homework, swimming lessons, an occasional mention of a boy that would put my hair on end.
I was waiting for her horse phase. Isn't that how it works? Girls move from Dora the Explorer to Hello Kitty to Hannah Montana to Horses to Boy Bands. I still had the horses before boys became an issue, right? Nope. She went straight to One Direction. ... No comment.
I've been gone for most of her adolescence, so it's been strange to see how much she's changed each time we meet or talk. She's crazy smart and driven, she's enjoying a biomedical program at her school, she's dabbling in ceramics and painting. She (along with B.) drools over Man of Steel's steely bod. All the jokes that once flew over head, she gets now.
She's growing up. But she's also growing well. She's kind and wise beyond her years. She respects her parents, she's patient with her little brothers (as much as can be expected). I'm sad to lose the tan ten-year-old, but this young woman, this friend of mine is an exciting new discovery.
My family is changing, our home is becoming less juvenile, and after so many years with someone always in diapers, I think we're all excited to be done with the Nick Jr. phase. Not long ago my brother, always the clown, came across this hilarious song, and had the courage to share it with my parents, lords of all things G-rated. They laughed and loved it, as did we older kids.I think they're excited to have older kids, intellectual peers with whom they can have real, unedited conversations.
Baby sis is growing up. But so are the rest of us.
How are you growing? What do you get to enjoy as an older kid?
S
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
My Chemist and a New Element
Let’s just get it out there. B. and I are very
different. I’ll save how we met and got married for another time, but suffice it to say opposites truly
attract. There is some real depth to
that normally trite catchphrase.
When we were dating, she told me once that she was worried that I was looking for someone who had more in common with me.
Pizanmovinite:
I grew up in a large albeit tightly knit family, and there is one tradition that seemed to survive and thrive better than scripture study or prayer or even nightly meals together around the dinner table with all of the stress and scheduling life brings:
Every week we had pizza, usually homemade by mom, and we gathered together to watch a movie. We rotated who got to pick.
My family and home life - my childhood - was cemented together with marinara and Disney DVDs. Everyone had their piece of the pie, a task that became very literal and very complicated on these family evening get-togethers. Half of one pizza was left plain cheese to appease younger, pickier mouths. The rest (usually three pies fed our large family with the chance of a few leftovers - gone within twenty-four hours) was a carefully fractionated conglomerate of pepperoni, pepperoni with black olive, hawaiian, meat lovers, supreme and veggie supreme. (getting hungry yet?)
I've since become a bit of a snob when it comes to pizza. Homemade is best, but in a pinch Papa John's will do. Dominoes is for desperate times, Little Caesar's is only acceptable when you're moving or broke. Blackjack's plastic cheese and cardboard crust is criminal. Papa Murphy's? I'd rather eat the box.
When we were dating, she told me once that she was worried that I was looking for someone who had more in common with me.
Now, I would never hit B., or any woman for that matter,
but in that instant I reeeeeeally wanted to smack her. Fortunately this conversation was over the
phone.
I had to explain that I love our differences, I celebrate them.
Everyday.
I mean that, everyday.
... It helps that they usually come up everyday.
I had to explain that I love our differences, I celebrate them.
Everyday.
I mean that, everyday.
... It helps that they usually come up everyday.
Pizanmovinite:
I grew up in a large albeit tightly knit family, and there is one tradition that seemed to survive and thrive better than scripture study or prayer or even nightly meals together around the dinner table with all of the stress and scheduling life brings:
Pizza and movie night.
It was literally a household word for me. I would come home on Friday after school and
ask my mom, “What’s the plan for pizanmovinite?” That’s right.
With common usage, it was shortened and meshed into one glorious term
that, now that I see it written down, seems like a chemical element or a geological
sample like carbonite or something.
Every week we had pizza, usually homemade by mom, and we gathered together to watch a movie. We rotated who got to pick.
My family and home life - my childhood - was cemented together with marinara and Disney DVDs. Everyone had their piece of the pie, a task that became very literal and very complicated on these family evening get-togethers. Half of one pizza was left plain cheese to appease younger, pickier mouths. The rest (usually three pies fed our large family with the chance of a few leftovers - gone within twenty-four hours) was a carefully fractionated conglomerate of pepperoni, pepperoni with black olive, hawaiian, meat lovers, supreme and veggie supreme. (getting hungry yet?)
I've since become a bit of a snob when it comes to pizza. Homemade is best, but in a pinch Papa John's will do. Dominoes is for desperate times, Little Caesar's is only acceptable when you're moving or broke. Blackjack's plastic cheese and cardboard crust is criminal. Papa Murphy's? I'd rather eat the box.
I’ve tried to make pizza for my wife, but to her, it’s just
food. AND she has to be in the mood for
it. This took months to wrap my brain
around; if food is in front of me, I'll eat it. I still make pizza about twice
a month, and 9 times out of 10 I eat it all.
Mostly, I just make it because I can easily transport it to my job (I
walk/bike to work) and have leftovers for lunch.
Still, I hope pizza becomes a staple in our new family.
You say spud cement, I say...
The reason my wife endures my obsession with Italy’s greatest invention is because she, too, has an incurable culinary fixation. Starchy and salty and buttery and creamery and oh so good. She looooves mashed potatoes.
If she donates her body to science, it will come with a complimentary gravy boat.
Some people add potatoes to their main course. She crafts her meals around them. Her diet revolves around them, which explains why we have roast almost every Sunday. Roast beef with peas, fried chicken, any excuse to boil and mash little golden nuggets sprung from Irish soil. Okay, they're probably from Idaho.
I've tried to match her recipe, and it has always come out disastrous. She's a chemist with the stuff. She knows the exact consistency, the ratio of butter to salt to milk to add to the starchy paste. I married the Walter White of taters. When we had only known each other a few weeks we were helping make a big dinner, both of us adding butter to the mixture, unaware of the other's contribution. I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me for what I did to that batch.
It's that important. Every meal. She can’t understand how I could ever get tired of them. I just shake my head and add toppings to my pizza.
The reason my wife endures my obsession with Italy’s greatest invention is because she, too, has an incurable culinary fixation. Starchy and salty and buttery and creamery and oh so good. She looooves mashed potatoes.
If she donates her body to science, it will come with a complimentary gravy boat.
Some people add potatoes to their main course. She crafts her meals around them. Her diet revolves around them, which explains why we have roast almost every Sunday. Roast beef with peas, fried chicken, any excuse to boil and mash little golden nuggets sprung from Irish soil. Okay, they're probably from Idaho.
I've tried to match her recipe, and it has always come out disastrous. She's a chemist with the stuff. She knows the exact consistency, the ratio of butter to salt to milk to add to the starchy paste. I married the Walter White of taters. When we had only known each other a few weeks we were helping make a big dinner, both of us adding butter to the mixture, unaware of the other's contribution. I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me for what I did to that batch.
It's that important. Every meal. She can’t understand how I could ever get tired of them. I just shake my head and add toppings to my pizza.
I’m not saying anyone is right or wrong. Nor am I saying that these are the only dishes on which we disagree or for which we stand as the lone supporter. I love breakfast, she's more dinner-oriented. She has to be in the right mood for something like italian, chinese, steak, curry, soup or stir-fry. I just need cash in my wallet and an empty belly. I’m saying that with marriage comes
compromise. And that compromise extends
into things like menus.
We all bring our own elements into the chemistry of our homes. Including the kitchen.
We all bring our own elements into the chemistry of our homes. Including the kitchen.
How has your menu changed over time?
Any recommendations for this new couple venturing into the culinary unknown?
S
Any recommendations for this new couple venturing into the culinary unknown?
S
Monday, August 5, 2013
Frontiers
Hamlet's "undiscover'd country" refers to the destination of our souls after death. But I think there's another country we see from afar and yearn for in life. Every child can't wait until he grows up, he pines after the coming days of independence and privilege. Every grownup yearns for the carefree days of their youth. The grass is ever greener. I don't mean the usual trite landmarks of life we often dog-ear in our own subconscious autobiographical works-in-progress; we won't be talking about first kisses or crushes here. There are a few subtler moments in life when I think we can all recall feeling brave and
intrepid, blazing a trail into the unknown and grown up.
My grandfather was a very proper man. He was an insurance agent, he traveled for business often and had an office with very little candy and no toys. He was rarely seen without a necktie, and always maintained a calm, reserved demeanor reminiscent of Gregory Peck. His horn rimmed glasses weren't an ironic hipster statement, he just wore them to see. He was the product of a distant, unreachable generation of grownups with their own sights, smells and sounds. The man was an island, a kindly, older Atticus Finch. His was a tidy, polite love.
But I knew him best as a young child, when sights and smells are more potent than memory. I know a lot of people equate the smell of their grandparents' home with something old, dank and stale. Not so with mine. Their house always seemed to carry a briskness, a newness, a polish to it. The carpet always seemed freshly vacuumed, dust never seemed to attach to their shelves, the kitchen was never messy. Even when Grandma was baking bread or making dinner, her "mess" seemed orderly. My grandparents never smelled old to me, they smelled like grownups, that was all.
I vividly recall him sitting at the table for breakfast, richly adorned in all of the colors, textures and smells of what I deemed as the far off realm of adulthood. The harsh musk of aftershave dulled by the warm milky aroma of his small bowl of Cream of Wheat. The crisp inky bookstore smell of his freshly folded newspaper, its smooth pages always turned to a business article with lots of boring words in tiny inscrutable print, devoid of any pictures. I can still hear the tinkle of his orange juice glass, the brief hiss of citrus as his sharp spoon pierced the soft red flesh of his bitter grapefruit half.
I was always stunned at how comfortable he looked in a shirt and tie, a horrible dress code whose discomfort I was grateful only to endure each Sunday. Somehow the fabric of his dress shirts looked softer, his tie more silky, wrapped around his neck cooperatively like an old friend. I had a clip-on that stabbed my windpipe. His slick 50s haircut suited him well; my cowlicks were untamable.
One day I finally got up the gumption to abandon my Frosted Chocolate Crunchables or whatever dessert was being passed off as a kids cereal and asking instead to partake in some more grandfatherly fare. I mimicked grandpa's portioning (I might have added extra sugar to the Cream of Wheat) and was pleased to find that I actually liked this "grownup" food. We split a grapefruit together on more than one occasion, although I recall sprinkling significantly more sugar on my half to quell the bitterness of the fruit.
To this day I still feel markedly more grown up than usual when eating Cream of Wheat, Shredded Wheat, Malted Milk, or a simple half of grapefruit.
I remember going in for my first surgery (well, the first I was old enough to remember). But it wasn't this experience that really sticks out in my mind.
My surgery was early in the morning, I think I was scheduled to go under at 5:30 am. My parents woke me up before the sun was up. Before there was even a faint hint of light on the horizon. For the first time in my life, I saw the starry sky of a new day. The air was so quiet, it felt like we were the only three awake in all the world. I remember looking up out of the car window on our way to the hospital and drinking in the vast black emptiness of space, feeling so small, but somehow taking comfort in that fact; if I'm so small, than my problems must be pretty small, too.
This was my undiscover'd country: the wee hours of the morn. So late it was early, so early it could still be called late. Day's darkness, a strange new phenomenon for my young eyes to behold. I've pulled all nighters since then. I've been out with friends until three or four in the morning. I've woken up at some ungodly hour to get a proper start on a roadtrip or a hike. But I never felt more out of place, more thrillingly audacious than that early morning as a kid headed to the hospital under a deep dark morning sky.
I felt awfully proud of myself one night as a fourth grader. I had read not one or two chapters, but nearly half of The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe in one night. I couldn't be stopped, I was a speedreading demon! I remember coming out into the living room waaaay past my bedtime, but it was summer, no school, and since I'd just been reading for fun for hours, I think my parents were more lenient in such cases. I talked with my dad about the book. We talked about what an interesting story it was, and how compelling it was despite the childish talking animals. Yes, even in fourth grade I thought that was juvenile. We're both C.S. Lewis fans, and we had a good time talking, but he, not wanting to spoil anything, did most of the listening, giving me leeway to geek out. I think my dad held back a lot, afraid that too much would fly over my head.
He was right. I was halfway through The Silver Chair (we had a box set of all the Narnia books) and I heard my parents use an unfamiliar word. It sounded a lot like analogy, I already knew what that meant. I asked them about it later that night.
"Allegory? It's kind of like an analogy, but more symbolic," dad tried to explain. "It's when a story or its characters represent something else."
I nodded in feigned comprehension. This concept was too abstract for my cartoon addict brain. Then he boiled it down to something pertinent to my own experience that changed my perception of the world forever.
"Aslan is Jesus."
...
WHAT?!?!!!
I lay in bed that night staring up at the grainy patterns of the wooden underside of my brother's top bunk, mulling over the stories I had read so far, matching them up with Biblical events and parables. The stone table and the crucifixion, the resurrection of both characters, even some lines taken straight from the four Gospels. How had I not seen it before? Inception didn't blow my mind nearly as much as this revelation. Suddenly I was aware of all of the parallels, double entendres, and subtle wordplay around me. I had joined a group of elite intellectual adults who saw the world in more ways than one.
I'm not a trekky. Space isn't the only frontier. Everyone has plenty of undiscover'd country to delve into in their own lives.
What frontiers remain in your life? What have you already conquered?
S
My grandfather was a very proper man. He was an insurance agent, he traveled for business often and had an office with very little candy and no toys. He was rarely seen without a necktie, and always maintained a calm, reserved demeanor reminiscent of Gregory Peck. His horn rimmed glasses weren't an ironic hipster statement, he just wore them to see. He was the product of a distant, unreachable generation of grownups with their own sights, smells and sounds. The man was an island, a kindly, older Atticus Finch. His was a tidy, polite love.
But I knew him best as a young child, when sights and smells are more potent than memory. I know a lot of people equate the smell of their grandparents' home with something old, dank and stale. Not so with mine. Their house always seemed to carry a briskness, a newness, a polish to it. The carpet always seemed freshly vacuumed, dust never seemed to attach to their shelves, the kitchen was never messy. Even when Grandma was baking bread or making dinner, her "mess" seemed orderly. My grandparents never smelled old to me, they smelled like grownups, that was all.
I vividly recall him sitting at the table for breakfast, richly adorned in all of the colors, textures and smells of what I deemed as the far off realm of adulthood. The harsh musk of aftershave dulled by the warm milky aroma of his small bowl of Cream of Wheat. The crisp inky bookstore smell of his freshly folded newspaper, its smooth pages always turned to a business article with lots of boring words in tiny inscrutable print, devoid of any pictures. I can still hear the tinkle of his orange juice glass, the brief hiss of citrus as his sharp spoon pierced the soft red flesh of his bitter grapefruit half.
I was always stunned at how comfortable he looked in a shirt and tie, a horrible dress code whose discomfort I was grateful only to endure each Sunday. Somehow the fabric of his dress shirts looked softer, his tie more silky, wrapped around his neck cooperatively like an old friend. I had a clip-on that stabbed my windpipe. His slick 50s haircut suited him well; my cowlicks were untamable.
One day I finally got up the gumption to abandon my Frosted Chocolate Crunchables or whatever dessert was being passed off as a kids cereal and asking instead to partake in some more grandfatherly fare. I mimicked grandpa's portioning (I might have added extra sugar to the Cream of Wheat) and was pleased to find that I actually liked this "grownup" food. We split a grapefruit together on more than one occasion, although I recall sprinkling significantly more sugar on my half to quell the bitterness of the fruit.
To this day I still feel markedly more grown up than usual when eating Cream of Wheat, Shredded Wheat, Malted Milk, or a simple half of grapefruit.
I remember going in for my first surgery (well, the first I was old enough to remember). But it wasn't this experience that really sticks out in my mind.
My surgery was early in the morning, I think I was scheduled to go under at 5:30 am. My parents woke me up before the sun was up. Before there was even a faint hint of light on the horizon. For the first time in my life, I saw the starry sky of a new day. The air was so quiet, it felt like we were the only three awake in all the world. I remember looking up out of the car window on our way to the hospital and drinking in the vast black emptiness of space, feeling so small, but somehow taking comfort in that fact; if I'm so small, than my problems must be pretty small, too.
This was my undiscover'd country: the wee hours of the morn. So late it was early, so early it could still be called late. Day's darkness, a strange new phenomenon for my young eyes to behold. I've pulled all nighters since then. I've been out with friends until three or four in the morning. I've woken up at some ungodly hour to get a proper start on a roadtrip or a hike. But I never felt more out of place, more thrillingly audacious than that early morning as a kid headed to the hospital under a deep dark morning sky.
I felt awfully proud of myself one night as a fourth grader. I had read not one or two chapters, but nearly half of The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe in one night. I couldn't be stopped, I was a speedreading demon! I remember coming out into the living room waaaay past my bedtime, but it was summer, no school, and since I'd just been reading for fun for hours, I think my parents were more lenient in such cases. I talked with my dad about the book. We talked about what an interesting story it was, and how compelling it was despite the childish talking animals. Yes, even in fourth grade I thought that was juvenile. We're both C.S. Lewis fans, and we had a good time talking, but he, not wanting to spoil anything, did most of the listening, giving me leeway to geek out. I think my dad held back a lot, afraid that too much would fly over my head.
He was right. I was halfway through The Silver Chair (we had a box set of all the Narnia books) and I heard my parents use an unfamiliar word. It sounded a lot like analogy, I already knew what that meant. I asked them about it later that night.
"Allegory? It's kind of like an analogy, but more symbolic," dad tried to explain. "It's when a story or its characters represent something else."
I nodded in feigned comprehension. This concept was too abstract for my cartoon addict brain. Then he boiled it down to something pertinent to my own experience that changed my perception of the world forever.
"Aslan is Jesus."
...
WHAT?!?!!!
I lay in bed that night staring up at the grainy patterns of the wooden underside of my brother's top bunk, mulling over the stories I had read so far, matching them up with Biblical events and parables. The stone table and the crucifixion, the resurrection of both characters, even some lines taken straight from the four Gospels. How had I not seen it before? Inception didn't blow my mind nearly as much as this revelation. Suddenly I was aware of all of the parallels, double entendres, and subtle wordplay around me. I had joined a group of elite intellectual adults who saw the world in more ways than one.
I'm not a trekky. Space isn't the only frontier. Everyone has plenty of undiscover'd country to delve into in their own lives.
What frontiers remain in your life? What have you already conquered?
S
Friday, August 2, 2013
Two Big Beautiful Blue Green Oceans
One of our more spectacular dates happened before B. and I even became an official item.
We woke up at 3:30 in the morning, I dragged her out of her bed (a miracle in and of itself, I had to finally just threaten to leave without her), we drove to Zions National Park, parked in the twilit morning and began walking.
The moon was bright, so we had no trouble seeing the trail. We were going to see the sunrise on a majestic overlook in the park called Angel's Landing. We had talked about it for a long time, she had explained how great the view was and we made an offhand promise that, if we ever got the chance, we would go together. Now, bathed in moonlight and yawning and stretching and trying to shake the slumber from our eyes, we were there, climbing the trail up the steep outcropping of red rock.
We talked, flirted, had a lot of fun, and tried to keep each other awake on the way. This I think was easier for me, the morning person, but 3:30 is still 3:30. We made excellent time and it was still nice and cool before the outing was over, but before we got to the actual rock face and the real switchbacks began, something happened.
A suspicious noise emitted as we passed by a bush. Concerned about rattlesnakes, but fairly certain it was just something more of the rodent variety, I grabbed B. by the shoulders and switched places with her. I let her go and we moved on.
I didn't think much of it, I just switched places with her. I did the same thing with my siblings on the sidewalk. I was always a buffer between the little one and the perilous traffic, that was just what I did. I didn't consider it a particularly gallant gesture, but she told me later that she giggled about it, squeezing her pillow tight as she described it to her girlfriends. She thought it was a really romantic move.
oooh... I had a move.
And I didn't even know it. I'm not writing this to toot my own horn or boast about my perfect romantic marriage (if anything I think most of my posts point out how imperfect we are - well, how imperfect I am). Rather, my point is, fellas, you never know what will win over your sweetheart. She watches you, she learns you everyday, she comes to know the intrinsic and unseen in you and your manner. You never know, so be your best. I was fortunate enough to win over my lady with something that was just second nature to me. She's watching. So watch how you treat her and others around you. Watch how others treat her, and make sure its with respect.
We watch each other as couples and as part of couples. I'm fortunate enough to be under the watchful eyes of my sweet B. I love her eyes. They're one of the first things that made me start to fall for her. Two round oceans. Deep pools of light blue dancing with shimmers of sea green, all haloed by flecks of amber. When I look into her eyes for a long time, she'll get uncomfortable and ask what I'm doing.
"I'm going swimming"
She always rolls her oceans then. But she always smiles, too. We watch each other's backs. We watch each other live, and we learn as we watch.
What do you watch for?
S
We woke up at 3:30 in the morning, I dragged her out of her bed (a miracle in and of itself, I had to finally just threaten to leave without her), we drove to Zions National Park, parked in the twilit morning and began walking.
The moon was bright, so we had no trouble seeing the trail. We were going to see the sunrise on a majestic overlook in the park called Angel's Landing. We had talked about it for a long time, she had explained how great the view was and we made an offhand promise that, if we ever got the chance, we would go together. Now, bathed in moonlight and yawning and stretching and trying to shake the slumber from our eyes, we were there, climbing the trail up the steep outcropping of red rock.
We talked, flirted, had a lot of fun, and tried to keep each other awake on the way. This I think was easier for me, the morning person, but 3:30 is still 3:30. We made excellent time and it was still nice and cool before the outing was over, but before we got to the actual rock face and the real switchbacks began, something happened.
A suspicious noise emitted as we passed by a bush. Concerned about rattlesnakes, but fairly certain it was just something more of the rodent variety, I grabbed B. by the shoulders and switched places with her. I let her go and we moved on.
I didn't think much of it, I just switched places with her. I did the same thing with my siblings on the sidewalk. I was always a buffer between the little one and the perilous traffic, that was just what I did. I didn't consider it a particularly gallant gesture, but she told me later that she giggled about it, squeezing her pillow tight as she described it to her girlfriends. She thought it was a really romantic move.
oooh... I had a move.
And I didn't even know it. I'm not writing this to toot my own horn or boast about my perfect romantic marriage (if anything I think most of my posts point out how imperfect we are - well, how imperfect I am). Rather, my point is, fellas, you never know what will win over your sweetheart. She watches you, she learns you everyday, she comes to know the intrinsic and unseen in you and your manner. You never know, so be your best. I was fortunate enough to win over my lady with something that was just second nature to me. She's watching. So watch how you treat her and others around you. Watch how others treat her, and make sure its with respect.
We watch each other as couples and as part of couples. I'm fortunate enough to be under the watchful eyes of my sweet B. I love her eyes. They're one of the first things that made me start to fall for her. Two round oceans. Deep pools of light blue dancing with shimmers of sea green, all haloed by flecks of amber. When I look into her eyes for a long time, she'll get uncomfortable and ask what I'm doing.
"I'm going swimming"
She always rolls her oceans then. But she always smiles, too. We watch each other's backs. We watch each other live, and we learn as we watch.
What do you watch for?
S
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Shirts and Skins
I walked around in circles trying to focus on my breathing. My friend skidded to a halt next to me and hesitantly asked, "Are you ok, man?"
I lifted my shirt from my right side gingerly to see the layer of freshly peeled skin grafted onto the fabric. I was starting to bleed.
... I've been better.
I lifted my shirt from my right side gingerly to see the layer of freshly peeled skin grafted onto the fabric. I was starting to bleed.
... I've been better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)