Just a little story in honor of my 20th anniversary this week. (I'm a little nervous about this whole heart-on-sleeve storytelling but here goes...) 

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...

Yesterday, G left on his surprise post-birthday trip to Utah. I have to say I was so excited it all came together for this well-deserved, long overdue adventure.  After Christmas I contacted a handful of his best buddies from high school to see if they'd be willing to meet up in Park City for a ski weekend to celebrate G's birthday. These are lifelong friends who really get each other, great guys all. Happily, they were all game (and, in fact, enthusiastic) so yesterday Chris flew in from Oregon, Sugata from California, Chuck from Arizona, G from here and they met four more friends who already live there: Mark, Nate, Justin, and Kelly.  Watch out, Park City.

Once he got a seat on the plane, he called to tell me goodbye and thank you, that he made his plane, and that he accidentally took my credit card with him. We were chatting away when in the background I heard a woman say (obviously to G), very clearly, "hi! do you mind if I sit in your lap?" + playful laughter.

Now, maybe there are some situations in travel I'm not aware of where sitting in a strange man's lap (or offering to) would be advisable.  I can't really think of any right now. Or, let's give her the benefit of the doubt...maybe G was accidentally sitting in her seat.  But, still.  It rankled.

I piped up on my end of the line "um, I DO!"

He relayed, "my wife says to tell you she minds."  We all laughed. Hahahahaha.  (Grrrr.)

. . .

It really was funny. Except not really.  

It's been a tough year for the marriage model, fidelity wise.  It feels like every month there's a new scandal about someone (Say it ain't so, Dave! and Tiger. and various governors. and presidential candidates. and friends' husbands.  Say...it...ain't...so.)

I hate that this betrayal happens...especially when it's to people I love.

I hate that with every new story another whisper of a fear enters my marriage heart, despite my trust in G.  I really do trust his love and goodness. Even saying that, the whisper pipes up "that's what all those wives said, too."  

And you know what else? I hate that women feel free to flirt with other people's husbands. We should be better to each other than that.

. . .

Because marriage is a leap of faith. And fidelity (the Latin fides, meaning trust, belief, faith) is the privilege and price of that unique, wholehearted relationship that marriage offers.  

Because this is what should be happening more often, not less:

My grandfather was born and raised on our New Zealand farm. He and my grandmother were married nearly 60 years. Preparing for a photo in the barley, my grandmother lovingly reached up to adjust his hat. This was his last harvest.

Gemma Collier, National Geographic Photo of the Day, 11.04.09

Our {20th!} anniversary is coming up next month and we dream of marking it with a trip sometime this year. Part of our routine is to toss around lots of ideas of places we could go to celebrate.  I email G a listing for a great cottage in France.  He reports the lunchtime opinions of his colleagues' favorite destinations (one vote for St. John's and one vote for Aruba), etc.

It's like window shopping, a traveler's version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.  It's great because, when decision time comes, we feel like we've almost gone to lots of exciting places, even if we just end up sneaking away for a night in the Marriott a few towns over.

In one of those dreamland discussions, we notice that the TED global conference at Oxford still has openings.

"Ooo, that would be amazing, don't you think?"

(We both ignore the price at this phase of the game.)

And then, G sucks air in through his teeth and sighs.

"Oh, but it lists punting on the itinerary."

I glance up.  "Oh, dear."

Sigh.

. . .

Many years ago, when our marriage had that just-out-of-the-box shine, we visited England together.  In Cambridge we decided to try punting on the river Cam.  (Punting, as you probably know, involves steering a long skinny boat with a long skinny pole while standing balanced in the back, like the gondoliers in Venice.)  We were students living on love, air, and jacket potatoes so we opted to guide ourselves down the river rather than spend the extra money on a guide.

G had no way of knowing the vision that was playing out inside my head--or how long it had been looping through my rose-tinged dreams.  He had no idea that I had snatched him up from where he stood and cast him in a historical BBC drama (the ones he actively avoids) in which we drift peacefully down the river, trailing my fingers in the smooth water, choral music wafting from the King's College Chapel as we drift on toward the Bridge of Sighs. (And by "we" I meant me.)

Yeah, no unrealistic expectations there.

So it turns out that punting is much more difficult than it seems--in fact, quite challenging.  We launched out down the river shakily, ping-ponging wildly between the two banks of the boat-filled river.  Next the pole got stuck in the mushy riverbottom and we spun around and around, pivoting on the stubborn pole. Then, regaining control of the pole we lost control of the boat banging broadside into another boat and knocking that guide into the water. Yes, really. (And by "we" I meant G.) 

I wish I could say I laughed and made it a lighthearted, BBC romance kind of moment.  But, no--it also turns out that I am a terrible boat passenger. I threw all sorts of "helpful" advice-slash-commands in G's direction, irritated that my vision was getting all sullied with the reality of guiding a boat with a pole down a crowded river. This, of course, was highly unhelpful and only made G feel worse.  By the end of the ride we were terse and angry with each other. 

Poor G, saddled with the heavy weight of my unspoken expectations. Notice that all of the actual work of my vision was unfairly placed squarely on his shoulders?  Is it any wonder we have avoided anything involving a boat and high expectations ever since?

Given a chance for a do-over these many years later, I would just lie back and enjoy the view.  I would laugh + jump in with the guy we knocked off (like the dance scene in It's a Wonderful Life!) and offer to buy him lunch. I would offer to take a turn steering us rather than offering backoftheboat advice.  I would lower my expectations and raise my compassion.  Or at least I hope I would.

I think we might be ready for another trip down the river after all.

And by "we," I really mean we.

(This is a tough category, Gwen Bell!  Since I'm a doctoral student I read a way too many articles and several of them were influential for me this year, at least in a scholastic sense.  But no, the article that floated to the top of my mind wasn't a research article or a study.  It was this interesting personal essay from the New York Times about a woman's remarkable and radically different response to her husband's news that he wanted a divorce.)

When we were driving from Boston to NYC, my mom and I had a nice stretch of time to chat.  In keeping with every other road trip in our lives, my mom brought a folder of clippings from articles and essays she's cut out and kept over the previous months. (I have many memories of falling asleep in the way back of the station wagon, listening to my mom reading a short story or article passage to my dad. Back in the days when you could put down the seat, lie down with a pillow and sleeping bag, sans seatbelt.)  Anyway, she got this one out and started to read.

It fueled discussions, on and off, for the rest of the trip. Here's an excerpt:

This isn’t the divorce story you think it is. Neither is it a begging-him-to-stay story. It’s a story about hearing your husband say “I don’t love you anymore” and deciding not to believe him. And what can happen as a result...He was in the grip of something else — a profound and far more troubling meltdown that comes not in childhood but in midlife, when we perceive that our personal trajectory is no longer arcing reliably upward as it once did. But I decided to respond the same way I’d responded to my children’s tantrums. And I kept responding to it that way. For four months.

Instead, she said "I don't buy it," gave him space, and got on with her life.  Here's the part that really hit me:

You see, I’d recently committed to a non-negotiable understanding with myself. I’d committed to “The End of Suffering.” I’d finally managed to exile the voices in my head that told me my personal happiness was only as good as my outward success, rooted in things that were often outside my control. I’d seen the insanity of that equation and decided to take responsibility for my own happiness. And I mean all of it.

I'd love to hear what you think if you read the article. It's thought provoking and (I think) the "end of suffering" and "I don't buy it" approaches could be applicable in lots of areas of life, not just marriage.

. . .

Day Three of Gwen Bell's Best of 2009 challenge. And, yes, all three "best of" answers so far have included my mom in some way.  Interesting. (I must be missing you, Mom.) 

Image by Christopher Silas Neal, via NY Times