Are You Ready For This?
Paul and I went on vacations together. We went to visit the new AMA Motorcycle Museum in Ohio where we watched the world’s dullest light show and laughed about its seriousness. We went to a cabin in the woods and watched deer in the snow from the kitchen window as we sipped hot cocoa. We went on long, woodsy hikes and tiptoed through waterfalls, splashing and giggling.
We went to Ocean City, Maryland, and strolled the boardwalk. The wind was wild there and we couldn’t swim, having arrived right after Hurricane Bob visited. The waves were so high, lifeguards warned us away from the water.
In the afternoon, Paul and I argued about something, no idea what. I stomped down the boardwalk, the wind painfully whipping my hair into my face. I was so frustrated by the gales that I stormed into a random stylist and said, “Just cut it all off!”
For the first time since infancy, my long red hair vanished. It barely covered the nape of my neck. I hated it instantly; I wanted to cry. I felt cold, bare, ugly. I didn’t have enough self-esteem to pull off this boyish style.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and walked into our hotel room.
Paul gawked.
I blurted: “The wind was awful so I chopped it off.”
He spoke cautiously. “Can I be honest?”
“Sure.”
“This is the first time I can honestly say that I like your haircut.”
The first time???
“I hate it,” I said.
“I love it,” he said. “You should keep it short.”
Paul maybe didn’t care about what I wanted or how I felt. But I kept my hair short – having no choice to make it grow faster – and when my sister got married in October, I still had that awful short hair.
Paul and I were in my sister’s wedding. Before we walked together to our places supporting the bride and groom Paul asked me, “Are you ready for this?”
It was my sister’s wedding, our presence a mere formality. Yet Paul was concerned about how we would appear on our 10-yard walk down the aisle.
Paul was always extremely concerned about appearances, as though anyone cared.
Paul once said I was the least pretentious person he’d ever known. I had to look up the word “pretentious.”
I still have no idea if this was a compliment coming from Paul.
For example, I missed my black leather jacket, which I’d tossed after getting sober. I told Paul about how cool I’d felt, how strong, in that jacket.
So when, for Christmas, Paul bought me a brand new leather jacket, I was conflicted. It was soft, supple leather … but it was brown, with a bright red lining inside – expensive, and probably Paul loved that jacket. But after two years with me, I thought Paul should have known I preferred black leather.
I wore the brown jacket anyway. My hair was short because Paul liked it that way. I didn’t realize I was sacrificing my own identity because I cared more about Paul’s opinion of me than I cared about finding my own identity.
I was still waiting for Paul to propose marriage.
Instead he said, “Don’t you think it would be better to wait until you’re 60 to get married? Then you could do whatever you want for your whole life, and still have someone to take care of you when you’re old!”
I laughed; I thought he was kidding.
At almost 60, Paul married a woman 23 years his junior – his first marriage.
(Paul didn’t marry me.)