Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
John and I really didn’t travel much (geographically) until 2004 or so. But now that we can, we both have a touch of the wanderlust. I love that we’re both adventurers—simpatico—whole-heartedly embracing the world around us. We are so compatible that way. When we’ve heard other couples talk about the inconvenience of flying, etc, we look at each other with that private, knowing glance: Like, you’d just rather stay home so you don’t have to pack and stand in line at the airport? What are you, friggin’ nuts? There’s a world out there!
I’ve gotten feedback a few (many) times that I have the perfect marriage. Let me just set the record straight: No. Not perfect. We have our stuff. I don’t want to post a Crest White Strips bleached, Photoshopped false image of us. That does no good—for anyone.
There was a scene in an HBO series that I found deeply profound, wise, bare-bones real. The granddaughter and her beau came into her grandma’s hospital room. If I recall, she was convalescing and was going to be fine. They mentioned to her that they were going to get married. She offered her unsolicited marriage advice, as a grandma might do:
“Here’s what I have to say about being married. Someday you will look at him, hating him with every fiber of your being, wishing that he would die the most violent death possible….
It will pass.”
Honestly and thankfully, I haven’t had a moment exactly like that and I’m hopeful I never will. But there have been some close calls. Razor thin. I’ve thrown some shade (and once, a hair dryer), given some side-eye stink eye, talk-to-the-hand shenpamigans. (Repetitive shenpamgians are shenpamiganandagains.)
I have a really good man. Like, stellar. I’m not bad, either. But whoa baby, marriage ain’t easy. One of my favorite quotes (mine) was once when I asked John, “What’s your problem!?” Snarky, he responded, “You’re my problem.” To which I replied in a pristine drop-the-mic moment, “I’m the best problem you’ve ever had.”
Which I still think is true. It was so good I had a sweatshirt made for him.
He loved it.
Truthfully, I don’t see him wear it often enough.
I never intended to send the message that our marriage is perfect. Because that message is not true. There have been some moments I thought we couldn’t be more mismatched, terribly incompatible. That we just don’t fit. Like it was some cruel joke. That my wounded spots get more red and infected and festering and blistery by his wounded, yucky spots. Salt-in-wound situation. Things that happened to him as a child that he had no control over, things that happened to me that I had no control over. And yet, here we are.
Work that crap out.
Our marriage is a lab where we get to figure things out. Discover who we are, and who we want to be. Mostly the latter while still accepting and loving the former.
Believe that those violent, bludgeoning feelings will pass.
Because they do, they will.
If I can be so gross and quote myself again…bear with me here or stop reading. (Hey, it’s on you.) John told me once that life with me was no picnic. What I said to him afterward felt like a thunder bolt straight from the heavens, dramatically slowing until it landed safely and gently into my lap, onto a crimson, velvet pillow with a post-it note. I simply looked down, eloquently recited the message on the delicate slip of paper:
“Well, if you want marriage to be a picnic, you’d better pack the lunch.”
Wham bam, thank you, Pam. If I do so say myself.
Marriage, life…it’s a wild ride, am I right? This world, this temporary residence? I’m old enough to remember the ticket books at Disneyland. For a thrill seeker like me, E tickets were the most prized. E tickets now have taken on an entirely different meaning with airlines and travel.
Marriage (and life) has been an E ticket. We’ve gone so many places—literally and figuratively—and only heaven knows the itinerary. I say, get on the coaster, book the flight.
Pack your bags, stand in line, the destination is worth the wait.
We couldn’t be more perfectly imperfect. And there you go. Oh, the places!