I love my wife. It’s almost silly to say, but I do, I really do. Writing the vows for our wedding was one of the easiest pieces I’ve ever written because there really are so many wonderful things to say about her–she makes me laugh, she cheers me up, she doesn’t get easily startled by my bodily excretions (that’s another blog posting). But there is so much more. So much in fact, that I’m not going to write any more about it because that’s not what this post is about. It occurred to me that of all the people I write about, I have yet to write about her, so babe, this one’s for you.
This story takes place a few years ago. Long before we were engaged, or even living together. We had been dating for a while (I think), and Michelle had been taking an acting class which she said was going well. At the end of the session, she was to perform in her class show, and I was invited to come, although there was no pressure to come, it was totally breezy, but if I didn’t it would spell certain doom for our budding romance. So I thought I’d go.
I’m not going to lie. I was not looking forward to the show. Not because Michelle pressured me into it, or because I doubted her talent. There was just this small part of me that had seen other girlfriends’ talents performed, and well, it wasn’t always a pretty sight. I’ve sat through some terrible concerts, shows and amateur nights (and to be fair, so have they), and there’s nothing worse than having to lie to someone you care about that what they’ve just poured their heart and soul into was fantastic when deep down your eyes and ears were just given a root canal. And although I knew Michelle pretty well at that point, I had never seen her perform–I knew she attended NYU for theater (which is by no means a small feat), so she had to have at least some talent, right?
But what if she didn’t? What if this was the woman I were to spend the rest of my life with, only to have to attend community theater productions of “Cats” or “Miss Saigon” that wouldn’t pass for dinner theater in Kalamazoo, Michigan for the rest of my life? Would I spend the next 50 years biting my lip every time I was asked, “So what did you think?” only to throw out the cliched, “You were so good! I could hear everything you said!”?
So you can imagine, I was a little concerned. But again, I should stress that this was past experience creeping into my brain, and had NO reflection on the woman I was dating. I see from the program that Michelle’s scene is about 5 or so scenes in, so I have about 20 minutes of show to sit through before I can pass judgement. And boy, were those 20 minutes a struggle. Have you ever watched a stripper try to pull off Mamet? I have. Have you ever seen a receptionist try to deliver Chekov? I have. And it isn’t pretty.
Finally, the lights come up and there she is. She starts of the scene with a bang, and lo and behold, she kills. She’s hilarious, and sincere, and devoted to her character and everyone in the audience knows it, especially me. I let out a big sigh of relief and sit back and watch a master at work.
Months later I told her this story (although no as elaborately as I’ve just written it), and about halfway through I realize that I have to tell her that I was worried about the whole spending the rest of my life with her. But since the subject of marriage has yet to come up, I realize I can’t phrase it this way, but it’s too late, as I’m already knee-deep in the story. So when I get to the part about spending, “the rest of my life” with her, I stutter and blurt out, “…you know, spending the, uh, well, rest of my days with someone…” Which of course my darling wife picks up on and proceeds to mock me for as I continue to tell her this tale. And so, for the rest of my days, I have this woman by my side. Making fun of me. Which I love.