Of Mice and Men and Cashmere

Our marriage started with bagpipes, a dancing Cinderella, a drunk mice conga line, and the blessings of a hotel full of conventioning Shriners.  That should have been my first clue that we were in for quite an adventure.

Backpedalling a little:   I was just past my 25th birthday, sometime in October, when I began to become infatuated with a really hot 6'1 redhead in the next department over.  I didn't need him: by then I was making my own way in the world with a reasonable amount of success, an ok salary, and a halfway decent single-girl social life. But when he noticed me, my smiles lasted an extra second; every step had a little more bounce; and every morning I had one small extra reason to bounce out of bed.

When he asked me to marry him several months later,  we were still in the throes of blind adoration. It was an easy enough question to answer.  The remaining early passion carried us unblinkingly through our September wedding day, our first apartment, and buying our first house.

But things change.  The hot skinny redhead  was apparently a brunette all along. His waistline  expanded as his hairline receded. 
To be fair, I hardly remained the size 8 perky, made-up, hair-curled fair-skinned bride of our wedding photos, either. 

We began to learn that the very qualities that attracted us to each other have frustrating flip-sides. We learned that bodily functions happen, that we are both reasonably hopeless in any forms of physical labor or craftsmanship, that neither of us much like to mow the lawn, and that we have differing concepts of "clean".

 Our first full-on fight, about 6 months post-wedding, involved doing the laundry:   He brought up a load of clean clothes he'd washed while I was at work on yet another weekend, and set it on the bed. I found it there a few hours later, all mounded and piled in the basket, getting wrinklier by the minute.   And right on top were two of my favorite sweaters… or what was left of them after a run through the dryer on "hot". With unzipped blue jeans.   

   It started with our then-normal  overly polite dance of words, until the stony silence he tended to adopt when upset finally pushed me over the edge. The anger I'd been building up over a million little things finally burst out… the flames building higher as his continued silence only fueled them.  It took a lot of screaming, but his bubble of silence finally burst too. And only then did we both finally  open up about what was really upsetting us, calm down enough to see things truly from the other's point of view, begin to repair to disconnects, and go to bed forgiving, and forgiven.

That was the day our relationship changed. That was the day the oath we'd sworn in front of our minister, friends, family, and a hotel full of Shriners finally turned into a partnership of equals, committed to facing life together, and creating a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. That was the day our mutual infatuation turned into a marriage.  All because of a blue cashmere sweater. (in fact, the very same one I'd worn the evening he proposed)

Tomorrow, we celebrate 12 years to the day since we traded rings in the Marriott's Grand Ballroom. 12 years of arguments, vacations, illnesses, dental problems, parties,  holidays, family functions. 12 years of moves across town, across state lines, of job changes, dog-walkings, dishwashing, shopping. 

12 years of the ups and downs, the beautiful sights and knockdown fights, the joys and pain of everyday life with a guy who has far more faith in me than I do, who never sweats the little things, who find laughter and joy and adventure in the most random places, who has no sense of ownership or privacy or shame… who knows exactly when to stop asking me questions and start hugging or taking over decisions… and who puts up with all of my million and one faults?  That is certainly beyond price. 

And, yes, 12 years of ruined sweaters and blouses and swimsuits…  Because "someone" still occasionally forgets to read labels. (And forgets that he's supposed to be banned from the laundry room for life.)

But that's ok. 

I can get a new cashmere sweater down the street at Kohl's. 

Starting a new marriage would be trickier -- Where I would ever find another conga-line of drunk bagpiping shriner-mice on motor-trikes?

~ The Sappy Part:  Clayton, you've been the central character in my life's story for fully one-third of it's lived-but-not-yet-written pages. I still have no idea why you put up with me, but am eternally grateful and delighted that you have. Perhaps you really are not the "Best. Husband. Ever..." but you are certainly the best husband for me.  A ma vie de coer entier.   I love you. ~

Oceans, Mountains, and a new Snorkel

Hi. My name is Tishabug, and I'm a scaredy-cat.  err.. scaredy-bug?

When anyone suggests, in even the slightest of passings, that I should try something new or go even a step outside my comfort zone, my initial, internal reaction goes something like this:

"No."

Then, thank goodness, my sanity kicks in a little, and counters with a more logical reaction,  something like this:

"Heck to the bazillion-plus nos!"

Unfortunately, my Mommabug brought me up better than that. So my *third* internal reaction takes me into pep talk mode, trying to determine what is truly the worst thing that is likely happen (usually nothing too awful) and whether I'll regret not trying it later. (Probably.)  

And then, there's still a reasonably decent chance I'll talk myself out of it, especially if there's no one to do it with--at least, noone who I can trust not to laugh (too hard).

Nonetheless, I do find that I have to occasionally, grudgingly give in to adventures that will expand my horizons.  Because, as it turns out, this is necessary to maintain my masquerade as a Normal Person. Also, sometimes, I give in just to make the B.H.E. shut up about it.

And since I have to give in, I try to put all the "try" I can muster behind it, and go in as whole-hog body and soul (but not so much pocketbook - I'm pretty cheap) as I can.

The latest adventure I've let myself be talked into is SCUBA certification.  

Despite enjoying a good pool swim, and having a half-bajillion (give or take 3) Caribbean snorkeling trips under my belt, being out in any natural body of water alarms me.  

But many friends have suggested SCUBA, and I've often thought it would be nice to get even closer to the magical worlds we see from the surface…  And then…  B.H.E. found a Groupon.  (Truly, I ask you, who can resist a good Groupon?)  So SCUBA lessons it is.

It's been an intense week, with about 10-12 class hours and 6 pool hours crammed into 3 weeknights (after a full day at the office),  and 5 open water dives scheduled for 2 sessions this weekend… but the feeling of accomplishment is pretty awesome.  I even bought my own mask and "dry" snorkel--a million times better than the cheapos we usually get offered on snorkel tours. And they match! Who knew a new snorkel could be this exciting?

Today was the first set of open water dives:  About 3-4 hours in a very murky lake, doing a series of skills at various depths.   Even after modest success in the pool, I was nervous.  But we went, I did it, the instructor (who knew I was pretty nervous) even said I did a good job, and was quite proud of me.

I thought I'd gone a little off on a couple of the skills… but after talking to the others in the class, it sounds like I didn't come off any worse than they did.   

   In fact, the only notable snafu - the only point where I slowed the rest of the class,  came after the dives were done.  In the climb (in full gear) up from the shore to the parking lot (have I mentioned Texas is in a multi-year drought, so the water level is insanely low?),  I fell.  And then I faltered.  

And finally my wobbly post-SCUBA legs and top-heavy gravitational configuration just didn't want to carry all that weight up the dusty Slope.  

More like sandy Hillside.  

A Really Steep Rocky, Pebbly hillside.

As in, "When the heck did Texas grow a Mountain?!?!?" 

Nonetheless, I passed today's dives.

So as long as I pass the final dive tests tomorrow, I'll be an ANDI certified diver, allowed to to dive 100 feet into the wonders of our planet's inner space.  I will have proved I can do this horrifically scary thing, and then, thank goodness, I'll never have to do this scary thing again.  

But I probably will.  I really should go see what those Caribbean conchs look like up-close in their natural habitat. And it turns out, it's pretty peaceful down there, where humans can't talk.  Besides, we found a really good deal on a trip to St Lucia, that includes all the diving we can take.

 I just hope mountain-climbing won't be on the final.

20 Years Well-Wasted

I turned 18 the summer after high school graduation. On that birthday,  I was working  my first paid job (a summer internship), enjoying my last summer with high school friends before we all scattered to the winds for college.  For my birthday lunch, a coworker and I walked down to register to vote in (and for absentee ballots for) the fall's presidential election. That evening, I had friends over to celebrate. One of our last get-togethers before the first of the college-bound left for school in August.

Joy abounded that summer: our little group of friends tried to wring every last remaining ounce out of our childhoods that we could. I was excited to go to a great college, far enough from home that none would have preconceived notions of who I was, based neither on the antics of my barely-older brother, nor on who they'd known me as since pre-school.

There was also a lot of fear: wondering what the future would hold, scared of moving to a school hours from home, afraid that I'd chosen the school where I'd be a much smaller fish, worried  that my extreme shyness would cripple me in a world where I knew not a soul. Fear of the unknown. Of holding my own.

That milestone birthday was 20 years ago, yesterday.

This week, I find myself reflecting on the hopes, the fears, the expectations I held that day, standing on the threshold of adulthood. And I can't help but make the comparison to the reality.  As Brad Paisley sings, "Welcome to the future."  

In most ways, my life has taken directions I never could have imagined. (But really, who DOES imagine being a "software quality manager"?)   

There are goals I haven't met: 

I didn't become a famous scientist or journalist, or really an expert in any one thing. 

I  have yet to reach Earth's orbit; to outdo my brother in salary, education, or title; 

to increase my '"visited countries" list (aside from several Caribbean nations). 

I've found many friends along the way, but not the close clique of local "lifetime" girlfriends I've always coveted.

But in the ways that truly matter, and that I never remotely expected, the unfathomable reality has exceeded my dreams: 

I fell almost by accident into a a career that meshes weirdly well with my puzzle-minded anal-retentive, yet people-oriented  brain.  

I've made friends across the country and world that have opened my eyes and my mind. 

I learned to eat - and enjoy - foods that look, smell, or sound weird.  

I fell in love with a great guy who has become my best friend, who has tempered my tightly-wound brain with his loose go-with-the-flow attitude.   

I've learned to listen to country music. And like it.

I've lived in 4 additional states.

I've travelled extensively inside the boundaries of the good old USA:  now lacking only Louisiana and South Carolina in my bucket list.  (I expect to remedy one of those before the month is out.)    

I am surrounded by an amazing family, old and new, by blood and by marriage, that I've always managed to find time to connect and reconnect with.

It's not the life I expected when I turned 18…  it is in some ways smaller, but in many ways so much more. 

I've learned that the true measure of success is not in titles, dollar signs, a collection of things, or the size of an office; but rather in quality connections with truly good people,  in enjoying what I do with my time, in leaving more smiles and giggles and happy thoughts and memories behind than sadness: in spreading at least a little bit of pixie dust and magic.

All in all, I'd say the last 20 years (to borrow from yet another country song) has been "Time well wasted."