I don't believe you're less if you're alone.

I don't believe that the world, like Noah's Ark, must be paired off 2 x 2. I don't believe that people must be married, even couples. Although I DO believe in the opportunity for marriage for all couples, if they want it.

That all said, damn howdy what it's like to be in love. To wake up to warm skin and a smile. To have the sun pushing up against the curtains and to hold it away, a sly smile and a murmuring of '5 More Minutes'...

To have my heart flip when I see him. To catch the soft little witticisms he slides into the conversation. The fingertips that push away the hair from my face, the steady expression as he handles the chaos of parenthood, the way he looks up at me as he's tugging on his belt and getting ready to leave for work - as though, for an ounce of persuasion, he'd throw himself back on the bed beside me laughing and earnest and his big eyes twinkling.

I'm not sure I grew up with the adults around me in love.

It was a different time, a different kind of social expectation on couples. But I saw my uncle and aunt adoring and appreciating each other in silences only they shared. I saw my best friend's father's eyes watch his wife whenever she walked into the room. I saw two men glance at each other, teasing about things that happened years ago as though it was just yesterday.

4 years ago or so, we almost lost this. And that makes it all the more precious that it has breathed back into life and stronger than before.

It makes me feel a little guilty - knowing some of the people I care about are struggling so hard to find love and others are in agony mourning it. Like somehow rejoicing is in bad taste, and should be subdued.

And we're broke, I'm sick, the cat is dying, and a thousand other things wrong. The roof is falling apart, the laundry is never done, and a dozen medical bills scream for attention from a basket on my desk.

But I can't help it. Our lives in the past years since I quit my job have blossomed. We hum, and hold hands, and flirt. Bear giggles and launches himself towards us with a happy laugh. The dog woofs to join in, and the days stuff full of everything and a thousand details besides.

And in the quiet of the morning, he presses the snooze button on the alarm and rolls over to face me. "5 More Minutes," I beg, my fingertips trying to cover my morning breath.

"Yes," he whispers, kissing my forehead. "Yes."

And later, I catch the woman in the mirror and feel so surprised. She is in the early autumn days of her life. Hard to see clearly, just another blurred face in the crowd.

But inside, my heart is young and wild and fluttering. Pounding out a simple rhythm, in love. And be humbled with the gratitude it brings.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:28 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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One of the problems I have with writing is that I am terrified of stepping on toes. And what I am about to say just might, so let me say 'hey, sorry' right up front.

Well, not sorry.

I am a firm believer that people generally do the best they can in the moment. Good Lord, I hope so. Because when I take my big feet and just insult the ever-loving crap out of someone, all I can pray is that they know I mean well and no harm and hey, I extend them the same benefit of the doubt - right?

But since this blog started in 2004 - despite trying at first to be all anonymous and stuff - some of my real life relationships have really gone downhill. People far and near who I have watched flake. It drove me into a deeper and deeper silence until, well, anyway.

Is it fair to love someone who uses the relationship as fodder for their creativity? As we broke up, my ex wrote a beautiful song dripping with irony and farewell... about me.

"A sentimental fool, to be sure..." he sings somewhere, over his guitar. And it I bite my lip and have no response.

So I say I mean nothing by it, but on the other hand...this is the story of my life. So it includes the people in my life. And I guess somewhere along the line, I have to stop apologizing for that and let it be what it is.

Anyway.

Two months ago we let our bookkeeper go. As $10 makes a difference on a weekly basis of where I can buy our food that week and for how much - the truth was that she (although a very reasonably prices and practically a member of the family) had become a luxury we couldn't afford. It was time for me to step up and take the reigns, as part of being the at-home half of this partnership.

But this is a huge mountain for me to climb. Not because I am dumb with numbers. Hey, I can actually publish a weekly financial breakdown of a multimillion project and how it is doing against budget with graphs and charts and a solid summary of spend.

But because between me and my own finances, I have a lifelong block. An emotional thundercloud that squeezes my heart and makes my hands shake. And my husband is worse.

I was brought up in a world compulsively obsessed with money.

And still is.

I can remember the discussion about how much things cost, and who got what bargain, and who was denigrated amongst whatever social circle for being perceived as living above their means. Inside my home, it was a vicious refrain that seeped into every day, every experience, as they constantly challenged each other for control of the money and the power they gave it over our lives.

What's funny is that I was never taught how to handle a checkbook or what a dollar bought. I was shielded from how much the house cost, what income bracket we were in, even mundane things like what the electric bill looked like or what was reasonable to spend at the grocery store.

But not shielded from the impact. Late at night, they would argue. A staccato, endless trill echoing upstairs.

A long, cold war that framed my growing up. And from which I escaped in body, but never heart.

I went to see a counselor about it in my late 20's. My ex had been the money guy and with him gone I was drowning. She helped me by having me simplify to the point that I didn't even have a checking account.

But I am older, wiser, and with an infinitely more complex life.

We live frugal, reasonable choices - but we pay way too much in what I consider "stupid fees". Late fines and such because I hate paying the bills. Hate it when there IS enough money. Hate it fanatically when money is tight and I need to make choices.

My husband, whose father raised him hand-to-mouth and one step away from ruin, struggles with me. While we had our bookkeeper, we were all right. It was not an issue between us. Never so much as an argument.

Now?

Oh, Lord. I suck.

I called him this morning. "You spent $16 on the debit card," I sigh, reading the daily balance sheet.

"What do you mean, 'YOU'?" he snaps.

"Well, you're the only one WITH a debit card, so I must mean.... YOU," I point out. "My card is still unactivated, stuck to it's introductory letter. Plus look, a charge just came in for $40 for the iPass transponder. Dang, I hadn't budgeted that for this week."

"I told you about that," he reminds me.

And I wanted to scream. There is an entire garbage bag full of mail I need to sort. A spreadsheet I need to fill out. And I am hunting for excuses not to do it. Simple, basic math. Simple priority decisions.

And this revulsion creeping up the back of my throat.

I have been fighting this battle all my adult life - which is now more years than my childhood so why do those lessons still haunt me?

I look around me and think that everyone else has got this handled. But when it comes to opening that electric bill, I am still the child in the grown-up's body, learning to deal. As I hang up the phone and think, time to make coffee - I'll do the rest later.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:59 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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