We’re both ’63 babies growing up in Atlanta. He and I both recall riding south down Peachtree Street in the ’70s, rounding the corner at Brookwood Station and passing the TraveLodge sign on the left, the one with the bear in a stocking cap holding a candle, its shared “L” to a child reading Trave Lodge vs. the intended Travel Lodge. It was probably a Sunday morning that our respective cars would climb the hill toward Pershing Point, he, many Sundays bound for Sacred Heart in his family’s International Travelall, and me, every Sunday on my way to St. Luke’s in our wood-paneled Country Squire. We realized our paths likely crossed again in Athens in the ‘80s when we were both at Legion Field for an REM concert, arguably one of their best.
His favorite color is purple and mine is yellow. We’re opposites on the color wheel and in other ways, too. My chatty ENFP-ness interrupts his logical INTJ down time, pulling him out of his own head, nudging him to connect. I think we fill in each other, and after all these years, hopefully better understand the intricate mechanics of boundaries and balance and belonging. Or at least by now, we know what we don’t know, and want to know more.
Opposites attract yet do their share of repelling too. We finish each other’s sentences, exchange a knowing glance across a room, and tell funny stories from our braided outlooks, but we also bicker about stupid things, vying for control. We look out for each other, though. He maps out my routes without asking, and I issue egg alerts when dining at friends’ has him fork to mouth about to discover what’s lurking in his potato salad. And in loads of other ways, too. We run late or very occasionally arrive at our version of early, which most would regard as being on time.
He likes his bedsheets untucked, his feet kicking them loose, and I prefer cozy and tucked in — give me a crisp hospital corner, even better. I joke he’s a Belgian beer and IPA snob, and he pokes fun at my occasional cold Bud in a can, in honor of my dad, who he sometimes reminds me of. He lotions his feet at night and I do my hands. We share two houses, two kids, two cats and one dog, and endless logistics. We share a life that can be full and frustrating, fractured and fascinating. He’s the velvety Chianti to my sparkly Prosecco. He’s my then and my now. He’s my love, he’s my vow. Cheers to October 1, and to our 25th anniversary.
The day is done. I woke up early this morning and went outside and saw the start of a murky sunrise, a smeared light-polluted attempt at dawn. Bats circled overhead and a nearby train whistle sounded, as a few jets criss-crossed the sky. It’s September 11th again, a day studded with sorrow and remembrances, what ifs, and what nows, a day so many shared but now wished hadn’t come at all.
The morning’s hamster wheel turns again – making breakfast, lunch (ok, you shamers, I’m up early and have the time, so I make the lunch), feed the pets and the whirl of the morning is over. Everyone is gone and it’s me again, dishes emptied and ready for reloading. Dog walk ahead, rental house tenant details, car emissions – will the old car pass? I’m busy and bored, gas and brake pressed together. My brakes are on and I can’t convince my foot to let go so I can roll. Don’t want to hit something, but I’m afraid I’ve already hit a wall. They say fear is excitement with the brakes on.
Dry cleaner: This place and their clay tile roof building has been around forever. The guys inside, several of them brothers, know your name and use it. If they’re busy or you are, you can pay later when you return next. They have a sign by the register to discourage cell phone use that is handwritten and refreshingly kind and polite. We’re all better inside there on any day, busy holidays, heat of summer, etc. Inside, there’s a kind word. A smile.
These simple errands bring life lessons. They rip open an ordinary day and inject it with a spirit that shines through you. Something about crossing that threshold, and you’re inside a safe space, a place where you go back to being your best self, stripped of competition, callousness, impatience. Here you have time to engage, spread a little warmth. Simple exchanges find you paying it forward as you head back out into the world, imbued with your best you that you want to share. You drive home in traffic with terrible drivers, the fuel light comes on and your phone has one bar. It’s okay for a while, but these bits, these little nuisances inevitably return, chipping away at your joy and take you back where you were before. You can always return to these places to refuel, but hopefully you’ll learn one day how to fill yourself up.
Yoga: “Visualize your jaw unclenching,” she instructed. So much for relaxing, that visual instead sent me to nightguards, root canals and crowns, decades of dental costs. I can’t help it, I’m English, I got the bad teeth. That morning, I drove the half hour to the Y where I unrolled my mat to practice before my favorite yoga teacher who it turns out wasn’t there that day. Instead, this broad-shouldered brown-haired girl led the class. I shouldn’t have been all judge-y, arms crossed and missing my teacher, as this instructor was kind and helpful, moving around the room correcting folks who got it wrong, me initially and later, me again. She wore a white t-shirt with graphics on it, maybe from Lake Burton or a sorority or a charity run, and Pullman brown yoga pants she could have lifted off a UPS truck. I’ll bet she can maneuver a ski boat with panache, settle into a slip at Hall’s Boathouse on Lake Rabun, and clean her own catch right there on the dock. She’s probably equally comfortable at the symphony, speaks several languages and knows the best BBQ joints, I’ll bet preferring North Carolina vinegary ones. She surprised me with her great music, too, starting with a lively song I recognized but couldn’t place, then moved into Adele 21, and REM, and even Sade’s By Your Side, that sexy song Richard and Samantha danced to in the Sex in the City pool scene. She must be hooked on that show, too.
It’s here! June 1st, the (unofficial) start of summer. Days are getting lazier and longer, and we’re supposed to feel lighter. It’s as carefree as a season can deliver.