A Little Romance
Last week a coworker was consoling me about my impending widowdom, for soon I will be a woman who has lost her beloved to a pasttime from which I am necessarily excluded. You've heard of them--football widows, fishing widows, poker widows, Boy Scout Jamboree widows. We are the ladies left behind when the boys go off to the wilderness (or the living room) to play.
But whereas many widows only mourn their men for a season--as long as the pigskin flies, the bass bite, the cards flop, and the lightening strikes--my grief is a special grief that lasts all year long; I, ladies and gents, am officially a band widow.
Now that Simon is the bass player in a country-western band, I regularly lose him to practices that go late into the night. Woe, woe is me, I wailed to my coworker, whose boyfriend plays in a jazz quartet. Whatever shall I do while my love is away?
"How many nights a week do they practice?" she asked.
"One," I bemoaned.
"One? Dude. Get a grip," she said.
And she's right, of course.
She asked me how much time Simon and I usually spend together that would make one evening apart (Thursdays from 8ish to 11:30ish) feel like a rip in the continuum. "All the time," I said. "All the time."
The reality of our existence now that Simon isn't living a world and a lifetime away is that we wake up together, shower together, synchronize our Sonicare toothbrushes together, and then drive or walk to work together. We talk on the phone approximately five times during the afternoon, and then he picks me up from the office so we can go to the gym together, eat dinner together, clean the apartment together, grocery shop together, watch a movie together, and synchronize our Sonicare toothbrushes together again before hopping in bed, together. It's not just "The Simon and Leah Show." It's The Simon and Leah Channel. The S'n'L Network.
For some people, this would be too much. Way more than too much. Especially since we still keep separate apartments, which gives us both an easy out if we need some space. Lucky for me, though, I've met my match in the area of needing to give and receive affection 24/7. I may be the one who follows him around the house like a puppy, but he's the one who calls me "just to say hi" at noon, and 1:15, and 1:45, and 3, and 4:30. You can imagine how the weekends are. (On Saturday, we didn't get out of bed until 6:30 p.m. We talked and talked and talked and talked and had some snacks and took some naps and talked and talked and talked and the whole thing was really rather ridiculous when I think about it.)
But guess what? A day with Simon is never wasted, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Somehow we still manage to get out and get things done. This weekend, we saw a lot of movies and ate a lot of sushi (one round of homemade), and we practiced our instruments, and we attended a holiday party, and we bought new coats for our upcoming cold-weather adventures. Still, though, the best moments are the ones that seem insignificant. At almost 1 a.m. on Saturday night--four and a half hours into our movie marathon--we decided we needed snacks. Always asking for impossibilities (brownies while hiking, cake at the theater, hot fudge sundaes in the middle of a transatlantic flight), I insisted on nothing short of a rootbeer float. "Sorry, kid. I don't think we have any rootbeer left, and we're out of ice cream," he said. "Wanna share some Mac 'n' Cheese?" "Nah. I'll pass. I really wanted a rootbeer float. Harumph."
Simon went to the kitchen to start the noodles cooking and a few minutes later I followed. I turned the corner just in time to see him pour the last of a bottle into a cup full of rising foam. Turns out we had rootbeer afterall. And ice cream. And a fat straw and a long-handled parlor spoon. I swear he conjured it.
And that, I think, will be the key to our success. Rootbeer floats in the middle of the night. Staying in bed until the sun goes down. Just calling to say I love you or to have the band play a song for me while I sit by the window waiting for you to come home.
--
A kiss on the cheek and a lick on the ear.
Us in the women's restroom at the pub. (We have a running joke about taking our picture in restrooms where our friends work).
Not pictured: Us in the dressing room at the Gap.
you know, it would normally make me say "ew yuck" n' such, being single and regularly annoyed by men anymore, and yet somehow it's just not sickeningly sappy yet. You're doing a great job of enjoying each other without making it too much for me to bear. THANKS!!! :)
i think we should get to vote weekly on where you take the photo. it could be a cool photo to-do list. oh yeah!
I thought I wouldn't be able to like Simon more. And THEN you go and mention root beer floats and country-western bands. :)
Precious.
:)