This is the year my 16 year-old daughter has finally started noticing the opposite sex in a tangible way. Despite my reminding her from Day One that she was not allowed to go out with boys until her 30th birthday, she has already been on a couple of earth-shattering (at least for me) dates. “You go, girl,” says Dad through clenched teeth.
Recently, I found myself thinking back to when she was only seven and used to play with her little girl friend Marty Boughton. The two of them would push their toy baby strollers around the house and pretend that they were married to our family dog, Mr. Higgins. They made up endless stories about this odd marital arrangement, which brought forth much giggling.
But it also brings up the question of how do we, in fact, find each other? How do we choose a mate? It seems so much simpler with animals. All an elk has to do is bash his head against another elk’s antlers for a couple of hours. If his migraine doesn’t kick in before his opponent’s does, then he wins the doe who has been anxiously waiting on the sidelines. Darwinian simplicity.
It used to be that simple for me. I can remember the first girl I ever had a crush on, in kindergarten. Back then, it didn’t matter if she was attractive. It didn’t matter if she had ample bosoms and wide hips for child-bearing (thankfully she didn’t – that would’ve been too weird in a five year-old). It didn’t matter if she had a scintillating wit, boundless charm, or was positioned to inherit a small fortune in men’s support garments. Actually, I don’t recall ever talking to her. Though I did get to sit next to her one day because I had gotten into trouble (probably talking too much) and was forced, as punishment, to occupy a desk on the dreaded Girls’ Side of the class. No, I was fascinated by Becky Clark because we shared the same last name. That was it.
In first grade, my fickle gaze fell upon Lisa Britt, a pretty blonde who didn’t share my last name, but who shared my birthday instead. Kismet. We became an item. Or at least as much of an item as you can be in first grade. I even remember going over to her house once, which was significant, as it was probably the first time I had ever visited Enemy Territory. (As a side note, Lisa and I both ended up in theatre, directing plays at the College of Marin, so maybe there is something to the shared birthday thing.)
As further evidence of how clueless I was, I once asked my first grade teacher, Mrs. Weber, if she was married to the school janitor. In full-on Sherlock Holmes mode, I came to that deduction based solely on the keen observation that they both were older and had gray hair. Ergo, they must be married. With raised eyebrows and a suitably wry smile, she informed me otherwise, and I was left to contemplate the confusing world of coupling.
So, it’s no surprise that I met Pat, my current wife, in a similarly unusual fashion. Following my separation from my first wife, I was forced to move into a new home in Novato, which required my finding a roommate. Initially, I shared the house with an older man named John, who departed less than a year later. I put an ad in the paper and prepared to search again.
I met with an odd cross-section of the dregs of humanity, before coming across an intriguing possibility. She was a theatre friend, a pianist and a stunner. She surveyed the backyard carefully, explaining that she wanted to see if there was enough sunlight for her to sunbathe in the nude, one of her regular activities. As much as I appreciated her potential decorative value, I was also sadly aware that having a gorgeous woman naked in my back yard might be viewed with skepticism by potential girlfriends. Probably for the best, she decided to look elsewhere. Then I met Pat.
Like me, she was also going through a divorce and needed a place to roost. She seemed perfectly acceptable, and I promised to let her know. But as we shook hands out in the driveway, I heard a very distinct voice inside my head that said, “This is the right one. This is good.” It wasn’t the first time I had received such a missive, and I took it seriously.
A few days later, when she came back to bring her deposit, she also brought a small stuffed animal for my daughter. Not only that, she had a second stuffed animal for Marty. That should have told me something.
We entered into the housemate arrangement, slowly became friends, then good friends, then best friends, then friends with the kind of benefits you don’t get from your typical 9-5 employer. It’s funny how life works out that way. We were married three years later and celebrated our 8th anniversary last July.
Lest you think this is a fairy tale, it hasn’t always been a smooth journey. We struggle with finances, push each other’s buttons with astonishing accuracy and regularity, and argue way too much. But we also take wonderful walks along Rush Creek and on Mount Burdell, enjoy bird-watching, play Scrabble with passion, cook together, laugh at a lot of the same things, and continue to find comfort in each other’s embrace. We are mated in the best sense of the word.
I sometimes try to imagine what my life would have been like, had I been successful in my pursuit of the many objects of my youthful affections. I would have been married dozens of times over by now. But I am content. Pat may not share my last name, or my birthday, but she seems willing to share my one life and that is better than any “happily ever after.”
No comments:
Post a Comment