You, Me, and We

You know you know each other well when no one actually remembers when you started dating, but neither of you really cares, when people have exhausted themselves with pestering you about when you're getting engaged and still, neither of you cares. And contrary to how it may seem, this lack of care doesn't stem from some sort of insecurity, embarrassment, or emotional ineptness, but rather simply from the assurance that no matter what anyone says or asks or demands, in the end, it will go one being you two and that is the only perfection you will ever need.

And if I may say, it only becomes all the more delectable when you are married. The added comfort of coming home, truly, to one another, is by far my favorite aspect of this whole thing. Peace, solitude, and the fun of our space. This home has become a design project in many ways.  We both cock our heads as we consider where the couches should sit and whether they should be angled at 35 or 47 degrees, we banter over where to place all of my (glorious) books, we shop for home decor, and walk out of the store smiling and nodding in unison at our "really cool, modern choices." These details have become another way to express "us" in a language we've created together. No, it's not really about the throw pillows or the vase on the shelf, but yet it is, because it's what we're creating together.

And while everyone keeps telling me I'll have my days of being at my wit's end due to food left out, toothpaste decorating the counter, or socks haunting the floor, right now I must say that it's nice to have reminders of this person around...at least for a few moments, since that's all they last. Our mutual hate of clutter and disorder is another unspoken romance language all it's own.

At this time in my life, I can say with all my soul that I am truly loved. How did this happen? How long do we have to enjoy it?    

Today is fine with me.

aDogWalk4u.com

There he sits. The man with the hat, a boater style today, different from his regular cowboy look, leather coat, blue jeans, and brown loafers sits outside the Starbucks where I’m currently checking up on my routine very important websites. From my habitual opening and closing of tabs for my favorites in their own special order, I smile as I think of the profound impact I as a consumer am having of these sites. I’m sure they’re grateful.

In the midst of my revelry, I happened to look up and note this man pulling a cart to the “20 Minute” parking sign in front of the store. The cart sits in the parking spot, leaving considerable room on either side of its wheels. Does a cart count as a vehicle? That may be entirely dependent on what type of cart we’re talking about.

This one is especially notable. I noticed it right away the first time I ever saw it, and it’s grown no less eye-catching though I’m going on 6 or 7 sightings. It’s an odd cart. It looks like a big tricycle with regular sized bike tires, a horse cart-like seat, handlebars, and then, most intriguing of all, an odd pole coming out the front. This pole needs something to attach to in order to complete the apparatus, but there’s nothing there. The man with the hat has pulled the cart himself by this pole to its current resting place. It looks to me like it’s trying to be a stagecoach of sorts, minus the real coach, but as if a really small horse is supposed to pull it. While this is immediately less glorious than a stagecoach with John Wayne fighting off Indians (I mean, Native Americans), it’s also a lot harder to visualize. How small is this horse? Does it qualify as a horse?

Then a look at the three signs decorating the cart clarify what’s missing: aDogWalk4u.com.

A dog. A dog is supposed to be bridled to this cart and pull the rider around.

I must pause here and allow you to feel the space of silence that I feel every time I see this cart…

Do you feel it? Do you feel this apparent business venture sinking in? Do you feel yourself shaking your head first in disbelief and then with a kind of decisive “Oh, that’s just weird.”

I happen to have the good fortune to watch a father and son going through this right now as they sip their coffee, staring out the window in a sort of surprised confusion. What in the world…?

Just previously, a woman who’d been sitting outside with her lovely German shepherd watched him roll up, sat for a minute or two then abruptly left, pulling her dog along quickly, looking uncomfortable. “I would never allow Theo to go through that.”

And I understand. Because IT’S AWKWARD.

ADogWalk4u.com, really?

Before a distinct tinge of pity sets in, I always go through a few phases. First, what benefit could a dog possibly receive pulling its owner/s around? Is this supposed to be better exercise? “Hey honey, just look how Max is panting! Good boy!”

Second, what dog owners would want to convey the notion that they are in fact too lazy to actually walk their dog themselves? Has it gotten that bad? Have the midnight munchies, along with long work hours, and that foot surgery led to this moment? “You know, we’ve been cooped up inside all day, let’s go out so the dog can walk us!”

The last phase I wade through concludes at last that no pet owner is going to let their “who’s a good boy/girl?” parade around like that so that observers can shout at them, “Animal Cruelty, ever heard of PETA?!” Especially if it’s a cat.

Of course as soon as I form this opinion, I inevitably find myself part of a mental debate over which animals it’s okay to have pull me around. A horse is obviously allowed. But what about a donkey? A goat? A cow? But not a calf? Probably should avoid the pig. Yet, something about a fluffy, panting poodle dragging me around seems equally as wrong.

But the man with the hat clearly doesn’t agree. In fact, he’s advertising. Now, I have never actually seen a dog attached to this cart, Thank God, which could mean a few things. Perhaps he doesn’t actually own a dog and therefore doesn’t understand the ethical dilemma at all. Or maybe he does own a dog, recognizes the truth, and wouldn’t dream of using it himself, except to make money off other people.

I’ve seen him inside the Starbucks on other occasions, cart sitting ominously outside, and while I go through my mental debating, he just sits in one of the comfy, leather chairs and fiddles away on his computer (like me). Is he working on aDogWalk4u.com? Is he putting the finishing touches on his new business venture? How is that going? However it’s going, he appears to need the time to hash this all out—I overhear him saying he’d been there till closing the previous night. Then I think, does he live alone? Does he have a family? I mostly just really want to know if he has a dog.

So far, everyone else I observe as they observe this cart seems to find themselves suddenly a part of their own ethical dilemma. Should we despise this man? Should we feel sorry for him? Should we laugh? Most passersby simply try to ignore the whole thing with only a quick glance there and away. They block it from their minds because no one really wants to have to think about it.

Today, midway through my conflicted thoughts, all at once indignant and mocking, with that hint of pity, I watch the man with the hat get up from his iron chair outside the coffee shop. He walks slowly to the cart and examines it from the side. He reaches down to adjust the sign. He looks at it a little longer, then undoes the tie to the “20 Minute” parking sign. I see the tie is a dog leash attached the pole. He backs the cart out of the spot, pulling it along by the leash, and walks out of my window. The back of the seat proclaims as it goes, “aDogWalk4u.com!”

27 years old...for two more months.

March 24, 2012.

27 years old for two more months.

When someone turns 28, that means they are only 2 years away from being 30. Two more years of enjoying the latter side of those romantic "20s," before it's old news and that person begins to identify with this description as well.

In two months, "that person" will be me. And if you'll allow me a moment of being a grammar nazi, the demonstrative adjective "that" in modifying "person" is quickly sliding towards "this" every second that goes by. "That distant person" will no longer be far away and will instead become the very terrifying "this person," as in, "me right now." NOW. Almost, in two months.

Can you tell I'm clinging to the last vestiges of the time frame I have before the inevitable hits? The only comfort is knowing that at least when 28 happens, I will still have 2 more years to cling to more vestiges, like debris after a shipwreck.

So what am I so afraid of? Is aging really that bad?

I think so.

And I also think anyone who says otherwise, particularly if a woman, is a sad liar. Let's face it, we as women all fear those telltale signs--the minute beginnings of what will become visible wrinkles around the eyes (yes, I have these featherlike stokes even now, I've seen them in my neon-lit magnifying mirror), those course gray/white hairs corkscrewing out of the scalp (reaching for the tweezers...), the lack of one's body to "bounce back" after late nights and busy weeks (where's the couch? and 20 uninterrupted hours to recover?), and of course, that inability to "eat whatever I want!" You know what I mean. I know you do.

Though my process is just beginning, I do not pretend to be immune. In fact, as I see the light touches, I realize all the more that "I too am mortal." My loving fiance simply shakes his head at my "exaggerating" and assures me I'm am just as smooth and soft as a baby...but wait, is that a good thing? Where exactly? ...he sighs again.

Yet, how much does this terror actually affect my daily life? Well, let me tell you.

I faithfully dab on anti-wrinkle cream to my eyes morning and night. I drink water as much as I can remember to cleanse my body, my skin, my conscience, and my soul. I know sleep is important so I get angry when I "have" to stay up late. I run at least 4 times a week to stave off the haunting thought that I've not done my due diligence. I stay tuned in to the latest trends in beauty products and styles to flatter myself. And...isn't this pathetic?

I think hearing myself sound so proud of my efforts is almost as painful as the very thought of aging itself. Why the worry, why the time spent fretting, why the bombardment of questions to a poor supportive man who honestly finds me sexy beyond perfection?

There now, that feels better. Because it is. Knowing my capacity for obsession, at the end of the day, taking a chill pill and a dose of optimism is, after all, the best remedy for aging.

To tell you the truth, I actually think my wisps of white, streaking through my dark hair on the right side is kind of cool--does it symbolize my wisdom or bad-ass self? I say both.

Religion, for real.

This is took place two years ago, but is the kind of experience that lingers with you...especially me.

It is the year 2010. Humanity has somehow survived 10 years since the Y2K Scare, I don’t even know how.

Anyway, here we are. As for how we’re doing…well, ask anyone and see what they say. Maybe they’ll say something like, “It’s all good,” “Eh,” or “Oh my god, let me tell you…”

God. His role in the year 2010 is a bit of a puzzle, almost as complex as Sudoku, but not nearly as popular. To enter the religious realm is to find a variety of moods, tones, and practices diverse and divided. I have entered sanctuaries that felt like morgues and others that felt like gymnasiums—and each with the proper personnel: pale, frozen faces from the wax museum to sweaty armpits amped for spiritual aerobics.

The musical accompaniment is equally as intriguing…

Take this one time I went to an evening worship service geared toward young adults. I arrived early with my boyfriend who was playing piano that night with this group for the first time. The group was mostly comprised of members of a progressive church in town that catered to young people who felt stifled in more traditional worship services. We were to be there early for sound check and arrived promptly, ten minutes late. I was hoping we hadn’t begun stressing anyone out, but all seemed calm, in fact, oddly so. The entire setup was actually just beginning, and it took all of five minutes being there to see this sound check wouldn’t be starting anytime soon…

Seeing people work together is always fun—as a bystander. A hatred for participating in group projects does not hinder me at all in watching them, fully entertained. Here, at this sound check/dress rehearsal/people talking/shouting/musicians soloing for no good reason, and all at once/let me assert myself, I REALLY NEED TO, the viewing was especially savory.  I found myself looking around to see who was in charge, but couldn’t tell at all—I was glad to fit in. Each lovely contributor to the evening’s attractions didn’t seem to care about, well, anything really, expect what they happened to be doing privately at the moment.

Eventually I identified the speaker and, as I found out, coordinator for the program. He was dramatically practicing his presentation, a skit depicting a prison-worker, played by himself, giving a testimony. Had he ever been to a prison or watched Cops? He looked more like a hobo from the 1920s, or maybe a mechanic from a Detroit factory in his gray coveralls. No matter, he was definitely feeling the spirit at the moment, and was totally “psyched” about the program, so he said when finally everyone was casually called to the stage area. He talked up the night as he paced back and forth in an agitated manner, hyped on something. It was gonna be a “powerful night,” “really back to basics” and the “nitty gritty.” I guess prison could be described that way.

Meanwhile, the sound guys were actually buzzing around as well, cords dragging behind their erratic comings and goings. They seemed to be making a trip from the back of the room to the front for every cord, one by one, until I had to start reading before I went crazy over this total lack in economy of time used. Oh well. Not everyone schedules their errand routes systematically, with attention to minimum number of turns necessary to reach destinations, possibly growing immensely frustrated at any glitches in “the plan,” like I might. Might.

No, these were not those types at all. I marveled at their scurrying about, like so many mice, somehow still slowly setting up. We were now about 20 minutes from show time, sound check still pending.

To be honest, I can’t quite recall if sound check ever actually happened. I’m sure it did, probably some “one, twos” in the mics, a quick volume check for the drummer, bassist, and pianist, the latter being one of the more attractive I’d seen. Elton being my boyfriend was certainly satisfactory. Most of the reason details of the sound check are fuzzy is because of the distracting meeting that took place right before the program was starting. The speaker was again pumping up the contributors, I suppose some of them were responding favorably, but he was still the most energized by far. Right in the midst of his pep talk dropped what I like to call “the bomb.” This term seems most appropriate to me in conveying something absolutely wild and unexpected.

While the speaker chattered away, gesticulating enthusiastically, he made a comment regarding the sound for the night. One of the sound guys—a little on the large side, haphazardly dressed, a sort of cross between nerd and grunge—turned to him, and asked incredulously,

“Are you serious or are you fuckin’ with me?” 

I think I dropped my book, it’s hard to remember through my shock. What? At first I thought I must have heard him wrong, but a quick glance to those closest to him, including Elton, revealed it was real. Lots of wide eyes, glancing down at the ground, around the room and ceiling, perhaps wondering when the lightening bolt was coming. Because it had to be coming—dropping the f-bomb just minutes before a worship service? I immediately began denying any direct affiliation with any of this in my heart.

An awkward pause floated in the air for a few beats, then the speaker responded, “Yes.” And then kept talking. I heard throats being cleared, as everyone pretended nothing had happened. I’ve never been be very good at hiding my emotions, so I continued openly staring at the guilty sound guy, but you know what? The only guilt he was connected to was what I was feeling on his behalf. He had only chuckled to himself in that “tryna be bad ass” kind of way, not out of disrespect or malice, just cluelessness.

In the end, the program was one of the more imaginative ones I’d seen, unfortunately my imagination couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t understand the correlations being made between a fake prison testimony, an artist drawing a picture, a video clip showing scenes of nature and natural disasters, and lots of heartfelt singing interspersed throughout the program. What did it all mean? I’m sure there was some underlying theme I was supposed to be blessed by, but instead all I could think of was how confusing religion had become, even to us, the religious. We were trying to reach out to the youth in our community, but this abstract way of doing it, while very postmodern, lacked a certain essential continuity that I missed. I like to think God penned the Ten Commandments on two stone tablets for what the stone symbolized as well. Solid, like the foundation and corner strength of a building built to last.

At the time though, I couldn’t make any of these conclusions; my mind was fixated on one thing alone, the surprising word fuck.