Preparing for the Music
July 18, 2010
Saturday afternoon started out with a shopping trip. We were about to embark on our ‘mostly’ annual weekend anniversary getaway to Little America—four weeks early—in anticipation of Mary’s surgery on Wednesday. The stop at Khol’s was an add-on. We needed some color coordinated shirts for our upcoming family pictures on Monday.
It took about five minutes to pick out three shirts for me, and then we began to shop for Mary. It was after I followed her around for about ten or fifteen minutes that I realized that other men were doing the same thing; following their wives aimlessly around the store. I decided to look closer at the male shopping ritual.
Most men follow their women just a few steps behind as if tethered to a short bungee cord. I’ll call them the bumper car men. The woman starts off as if she’s about to move to the next rack, the bungee cord stretches, and then as suddenly as she started, she stops and reaches out to the next cute top. The man is slow to start, moves forward and then in response to the abrupt stop, the man nearly bumps into the woman. He then glances around the store to see if any of the other men have noticed. When the woman starts out again the entire sequence starts all over. The bungee stretches the man moves the woman stops and the man nearly bumps into her.
Other men like me, stand back and watch, then move closer on occasion to show their support to their woman. But selfishly enough, by the way we stand, gaze aloof around the store, give our shallow responses to our women’s questions, and do our best to look bored, we make sure our women know we are ready to leave at any time—and the sooner the better.
But it is the truly remarkable man, the least common of us all, which deals with the shopping experience with real style. My curiosity was truly peeked as I watched in amazement. He travels from rack to rack—much like a woman would do—one shopping with their very best friend. He seems to know what his wife or girl would like to wear, her style, and even her favorite color and size. Where does he learn that? The two of them interact with comments about why or why not the article of clothing would or wouldn’t work. How does he know what fashion is in style, what his wife likes, what size she is, what color looks best, and when he should even open his mouth to comment? Are there classes for that? Do those men have a more feminine side to them? How do they do that? How can I learn to do that? Mary is my best friend, but am I hers? What have I done to nurture the best friend part of our relationship these last thirty years?
The checkout was another eye opener. And for some strange reason by the time we were standing there I was actually enjoying the time with Mary. She on the other hand was thinking of her grandbabies. Still five months in advance and she placed six additional items to the shopping cart. By the time we left the store, our ‘savings’ was more than what we had spent, she had charged the purchases on her Khol’s card so she could get the best discount, and then she had paid the balance on the card for the same purchase. Mary is a shopping pro.
Seven weeks from engagement to wedding, a whirlwind of activity. Mary’s one year contract on her apartment was up at the end of July and I had another 2 months beyond that. We decided Mary would move into my apartment and I moved into a vacant room in my best man’s place. The fact that he and his wife were newlyweds of only 4 months made the move a little awkward so the majority of my time was still spent with Mary in my apartment. Sleeping was always separated by the five block distance between us and we usually didn’t see each other until after work.
Because of stresses with my parents, Mary and I made nearly all the arrangements for my part of the wedding, including the financial matters. We purchased flowers, rented tuxes, paid for the announcements, reserved the wedding breakfast and scheduled the ceremony. Mary’s parents arranged for the open house in Washington with a cake, refreshments, and decorations which would follow the week after we were married.
Mary explained to me why she had been so hesitant to commit to an exclusive relationship. She had dated several guys, and had given her heart to the relationships and then always had her heart broken. She had decided it was time to watch out for her self this time. My strategy was, without a doubt, the best way any guy could have ever moved forward with her heart strings. Mary had a ring on her finger and it was time to tell the others goodbye.
Steve was brokenhearted when Mary returned from her trip to her parents’ home—engaged—and shortly thereafter terminated her employment at the theater. The trip to Europe would no longer be part of his strategy. Mary’s friend Scott, the guy selling books in Canada, was the most torn up by our pending nuptials. He was working for the same company that Mary worked for and had left his personal belongings in Mary’s care; a sort of unofficial claim on her. When he heard the news—which traveled like lightning through the office network—the first thing he did was call and try to talk her out of such a ‘terrible mistake.’ He begged and pleaded with her to reconsider, I was just ‘some guy that had come in and swept her off her feet and she was making the biggest mistake of her life.’ As a matter of fact, he was ready to buy a plane ticket, that very day, and fly down to talk his “queen” out such an awful calamity. Mary handled it well. She was sorry to cause him such pain but had always known that the relationship was never going to the place Scott had wanted it to go.
One late evening, about a week prior to our wedding, I reluctantly kissed Mary good night as she pushed me out the door and sent me home to bed. I climbed on my bike and started down the usual busy Highway 89. Because of the late hour the street was nearly empty, at least until the drive-in theater finished its first movie about a mile down the road. Then a steady stream of traffic poured onto the two lane thoroughfare I needed to cross to get home, but the traffic was too thick. I quickly decided that my best solution would be to continue south, past the theater, and force the traffic to yield to me as I returned. I pulled from the center divider lane and proceeded south, but the high pitched squealing of racing car engines drew my attention from the road. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from at first, but it was growing closer by the second. Because of its out-of –the-way proximity between Provo and Springville, Highway 89 was often used as a quarter mile racing strip for the local teenage hot-rodder. I peered at my rearview mirrors and suddenly realized two cars, lights off, were speeding toward me from the rear. In fear of being plowed over, and not a moment too soon, I pulled into the median to get out of their way. As I tried to slow, the loose gravel in the center lane gave way under the pressure of my tires and my bike began to skid out of control. Both wheels turned perpendicular to the road. The bike and I both fell toward the asphalt as the sliding wheels lead the way. Without warning the gravel feathered away and both tires gripped firmly to the asphalt. My forward momentum and skidding tires stood the bike upright with such force that I was shot from seat the like a loaded catapult and tossed several yards from my bike. The flight was exuberating, the landing was rough.
I must have been slightly in shock when I clambered from the asphalt, my right hand bloody to the elbow, and tried to mount my bike again to drive away. But the oncoming traffic had stopped, and two or three good citizens were telling me I needed medical attention before they would let me leave. My arm and hand had been crushed under the weight of my body and my wrist had been hyper-extended so far that the skin on my middle finger had stretched and exploded from the strain. That night was the first of many over the years that Mary would be with me in the emergency waiting room.
As the days quickly passed Mary’s parents were scheduled to arrive in town for the wedding. I will never forget the embarrassment of the night they arrived. With the wedding just two days away I had moved most of my clothing back into our apartment. After work I would shower at the apartment and then Mary and I would spend the evenings together. It was on such an occasion after I had finished showering that I emerged from the bathroom drying my hair with a towel. I was wearing my blue jeans, but no shirt or shoes. Frankly it looked as though Mary and I had shacked up prior to our wedding as I realized Jack and Annette were standing in the living room wondering what in the world their half naked future son-in-law was doing in their daughter’s apartment.
I simply greeted our guests with a handshake and retreated to the bedroom to put on a shirt. When I reemerged, dressed, I helped them bring their luggage from the car. They planned on staying in the apartment while they were in town.
No comments:
Post a Comment