This is a list of things as I remember them.
1.) Back in the years before my husband was my husband, we had a short, rageful argument about travel. Somehow we go into a theoretical debate about what percentage of our lives we wanted to spend traveling, and his conclusion was that he wanted to travel very little. I, who still get excited on small aircraft bound anywhere (I loved Lexington, Kentucky) thought a life without travel insane.
Anyway, I remember having a short, bitter argument. I remember feeling so strongly that this was an issue I would question staying in the relationship over -- actual time in therapy was spent discussing what travel meant to us.
A few months later, for my birthday, my to-be gave me the best birthday gift anyone had ever given me, or has since: a handmade Ticket to Anywhere coupon, for the vacation of my choice. I'd like to think it was an apology, but in truth I think he'd forgotten. This is something I love.
2.) When my husband and I first met, we rented a house together for a few weekends over a summer at the beach. We'd take a blanket to the beach at night to get away from everyone else and look at stars and talk and sleep. They were long, hazy summer days. One afternoon, groggy from a beach nap, I tucked my sunglasses into the cleavage of my bathing suit (the perfect place, I find, for most spectacles). Walking the short distance from our blanket to the ocean, I splashed cold water on my face and watched my favorite sunglasses slip from between my breasts to the frothing ocean at my feet.
I stood up sharply and burst into hysterical tears. These glasses, these tortoise shell perfect brown prescription sunglasses, had been my last physical remnant of Him.
He was the guy I loved before my husband, who had hurt me badly. Our relationship had ended quickly and painfully, but I had learned a lot about myself. Which in my experience is how it goes.
The last time any part of me had seen him, felt him, smelled him, been near him, I had been wearing these sunglasses. And I had just watched them swirl to their death at my feet.
The man not yet my husband, yards away, saw this and ran over, frantically asking to know what had happened. I lost my sunglasses, I think I choked out.
I sobbed into his chest for maybe five minutes before he asked, as much as observed, "This isn't about sunglasses, is it?"
I said no, and he held me for as long as I needed to cry. This is something I love.
3) Interestingly, another memory of an argument. I don't remember what, but I remember where: We were in my apartment. I was righteously indignant at him for not knowing to provide something for me that I hadn't been able to articulate needing--support in some physical or emotional way, I don't remember which. In the heat of argument, I must have asked him, DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU EXACTLY WHAT I WANT?????
He looked me straight in the eye, his piercing green, and to paraphrase, he said:
Yes, dear. You may be required to ask for what you want.
This is something I love.
