A Girl...

When the Going Gets Tough

I have been reading all day. ALL DAY. While blowdrying my hair, I met up with the inimitable Miss Becky Sharp (the book is threatening to be as good as or better than the BBC miniseries; I haven't seen the 2004 film yet), and then for the rest of the day, including BART rides to and from work, it was photo captions (y'all, Yosemite is PRETTY), and magazine articles, and essays on "what is home" and "what is culture" and why capital secured by cultural nonprofits is less fungible than that of organizations operating in the public sector. Excuse me, but fungible? When I read that I did the editorial equivalent of a spit-take (which looked a lot like blinking my eyes once, very slowly), and if you listened closely you could also hear the editorial equivalent of everyone's favorite comedy sound-effect: a turntable needle scratching to a halt across the grooved plane of an LP. So, in my case, that would be what, a red pencil coming to a very abrupt halt on a sheet of paper? So, basically, silence.

People, my eyes are tired. They're so tired they're tahrd. I know exactly how far back in my head my eye sockets go because THAT'S WHERE THE HURTING STOPS. This weekend I don't want to read anything but faces, m'kay? So get cute.

I always seem to have extra projects right before I go on vacation--or perhaps I'm just always going on vacation?--and this week is no different. I'm earning buco dinero on this rascally puppy, though, which is the only saving grace (besides bragging rights in having now edited a former editor of the New York Times' Sunday Arts and Leisure section) in having sacrificed several evenings and weekends to the printed page rather than spending it fulfilling my heart's desire, which, right now, would be organizing the bathroom vanities (we have one bathroom but four medicine cabinets). (Speaking of bathrooms, OMG, have I told you about our incinerator toilet?! I haven't, have I?! In addition to a normal toilet that flushes with water, we have an Incinolet, which toasts your poo into a pile of ashes! This is great for fertilizing vegetables, we suppose, and wouldn't you know it that the toilet faces a full wall of windows--floor to ceiling with no shades--that looks directly onto the backyard garden! No, we haven't tried it, but you are welcome to.)

One of the perks of my role as bringer of the extra proverbial bacon this month has been Simon's chipper acceptance of his role as serf in my fiefdom. Vassal, I guess, would be more accurate, since he retains his basic freedom to roam about the countryside and he primarily exerts himself not in plowing my land (heh) or relocating stone walls but in various knightly duties, including making her majesty's dinner and preparing her majesty's nonalcoholic cocktail. (Hi, we have about a hundred Meyer lemons on our tree.)

I'm a lucky girl, and it's been a while since my good fortune has fallen under such bright illumination that I have to stop for a second and pinch myself. While I've been burning the midnight oil, Simon has been making dinner (and praying over it?), doing dishes, folding laundry, unpacking boxes, and going to the grocery store with orders to buy twenty boxes of granola bars and nothing else, which might be even more embarassing than buying tampons. I've been making demands--apologetically--and he has stepped up with grace. This is nothing new, as he is one of the most polite and generous and helpful people I've ever met, but what struck me today is that we have a true partnership the likes of which I've never before experienced. See, Simon helps me out when I need it, and then I get to help him out when he needs it. How novel! When he has hours of extra work, I make dinners and cocktails and beds too, and *bonus* I do it all without resentment or a shot of self-involved martyrdom because I know he does the same for me. In a previous relationship, I was the one who always shored up the crumbling foundation of the other person; I thought we "worked" because I was the stable force to steady his instability. Well, let me tell you that this is not an ideal set-up. Resentment creeps in, fatigue takes over, and there is exactly zero opportunity for the "stable" one to show the least sign of weakness lest the entire tower pancake down upon itself. Simon and I are not like that. Simon and I work because we support each other. We're in this together and I am so incredibly fortunate to have found (and forged and cultivated) something so solid.

I didn't start this out to get all mushy, but I can hear him in the kitchen right now shredding the romaine and I just had to tell you how in love I am.

Posted by Leah at July 24, 2007 08:07 PM