I haven't been blogging for the past few weeks, because I have been working on an essay for a contest sponsored by Redbook magazine and A Cup of Comfort books entitled, "Your Love Story." I used to devour Redbook every month when I was in my twenties, sometimes reading the whole issue in one sitting. Once I had kids, I let my subscription slide in favor of Baby Talk, American Baby, Parents, Parenting, Family Fun... You name it, if there was a mag on raising children, it arrived at my doorstep each month.
Eventually, I let all but my Parents subscription expire - my kids were getting bigger and I didn't need the handholding of those glossy, comforting pages. With only one magazine coming in (which was near its end, as well), I treated myself to a Redbook subscription. It was only $5 for a whole year and I couldn't resist the bargain and the chance to get reaquainted with an old friend. When my first issue arrived, I couldn't believe it - right there below the editor's letter was the call for essays. It was kismet - for years I read the magazine only once or twice a year as a treat and the first issue of my subscription arrived with this opportunity staring me in the face. That was in late January and it provided a bit of optimism during the dark days of winter. The deadline was April 20th and of course, I worked on it until April 20th. It just didn't seem done, though - something rang false and again a stroke of kismet - the deadline was extended five days.
I am a text book procrastinator - I really can't get going on a project, until a deadline is looming, when my adrenaline is flowing and my fingers fly over the keyboard. So, it was really no surprise that I kept revising until the eleventh hour. But, it did surprise me how much I enjoyed the process - ok, maybe not at the very end when I was nibbling on my nails and rubbing my eyes and swearing that if I had to read that stupid essay one more time, I was going to pull my hair out. But, I did enjoy the process of writing my love story, our love story. I remembered the night I ran into my husband, Jeff, on the street. I could see what he was wearing, could remember the flip of my stomach when I turned around and saw him. I remembered what it felt like when he stood behind me as we ordered a late night pizza - the charge between us. I reminisced about what he was like as a bad boy rocker, before the responsible disaster recovery specialist took over. The day he proposed was like yesterday in my mind - a fallen log at Walden Pond, a song written just for me, beginning with, "You're the sugar in my sweet tooth. You're the keeper of my private truth," and ending with, "Stephanie, will you marry me." The moment we returned to Walden Pond two years later and decided that we were ready to start a family came flowing back, as well.
Writing the essay also forced me to revisit tough times - breaking up with Jeff every three months for a year, because he was incapable of committing, our difficult first year of marriage, when my sister was battling cancer and I felt constantly ill from surivivor's guilt, not to mention an ongoing inner ear infection, a gas leak in our apartment and bottoming out hypoglycemia. I chose not to mention the gas leak - I just didn't have enough space. I also left out the fact that on the first night we ran into each other, in a fit of vanity I took off my glasses and placed them in my jacket pocket. They promptly fell out and I spent a good chunk of the night on my hands and knees on the sticky floor peering under tables, hoping to spot them. I never did find them and, ironically, they were a replacement for the same exact pair I had lost while on a date seven months before. Those fell out of my pocket into the ocean and floated away as my date and I stood on the beach and watched helplessly. Remembering that nugget of information reminded me of how vain I was in my twenties - never letting a guy I was interested in see me wearing my glasses. That was the unexpected benefit of telling this story - remembering who I was before I had children (good or bad), before wife and mother came first in my description of myself. It was also interesting to find what I left out and what made it in - 2,000 words really isn't a whole heck of a lot of space in which to tell a story spanning seventeen years.
Of course, the essay had to spin into the present day, into where our love story took us, not just where it started. One of the themes of the contest was how something that could have torn you apart, has made you stronger. I had to admit that Jeff and I have been on the brink of disaster many times parenting a child for whom just getting throught the day is sometimes a seemingly insurmountable task (see my previous blog - Twice Exceptional). But, in writing about it, I was able to appreciate the fact that after many battles and rounds of blame, we are finally working together as a team in trying to help our child.
I know that the chances of my essay winning are pretty slim - I'm sure there are thousands of entries in which couples have emerged from the darkness of more earth shattering road blocks - but, win or lose, I've gained something precious. How often does one really take the time to reflect upon the origin of one's union? To really get down the narrative of one's own love story? Not too often, I would imagine, in our running around lives. So, here's my proposal to you - the reader: take a moment or two to reflect upon your own love story, your own narrative. If you'd like to share a snapshot of your story (500 words max, if possible), great - post it in comments right here on my blog, in facebook comments or message me. Now that I think about it, don't limit yourself to romantic love - is the light of your life a furry friend rescued from the town animal shelter? Are you a single mom whose child fills your life with joy? Do you have work or a charity project that you love? Straight, gay, attached, unnattached - if you have someone or something that rocks your world, I'd love to hear from you. I'll share your stories in a special blog post (with first names only). With all the sadness in our world, sometimes reading about other people's happiness and how they have overcome adversity is the best tonic of all.
I'll start it off with an excerpt from my essay, the first four paragraphs, edited a bit for space, along with two pictures from then and now...
We met on a night when spring turned into the anticipation of summer and even though a chill hung in the air, I knew warmth was just a breath away. I was 25 years old and treading the murky waters between adolescence and true adulthood. Yes, I was living on my own – doing laundry, paying bills – but, I had only myself and my own little world to worry about. No children, no significant other. I had sworn off men sixth months earlier. A year of therapy had helped me get over a devastating (at the time) breakup. I was working out regularly and felt stronger than ever – happy on my own.
Walking down Boylston Street in Boston, I heard my name drift out from the doorway of one of the trendy, packed bars. Turning, I saw a guy that I had a crush on years earlier in college. I was a senior in high school visiting the University of Massachusetts the first time I laid eyes on my future husband, Jeff. He was a freshman at UMass working in the school store. My friend grabbed my arm and whispered, “I have such a crush on that guy.” I glanced over and there he was – leaning into the beverage case, unloading bottles. His muscular arms extended into the refrigerator case, sinewy and framed by a soft blue sweatshirt, the sleeves cut off to expose perfect biceps. Faded Levi’s hugged his undeniably cute butt. Even his glossy, chestnut mullet, fringing over the collar of his sweatshirt was sexy (this was 1986, after all). I sucked in my breath. “Do they all look like that here?” I asked.
I attended the University of Massachusetts the following September and although I did see Jeff around – I was in the audience many times as he pounded the drums for one of the hottest bands on campus – we never dated (though, we did meet once through friends). I was dating my high school sweetheart my whole freshman year and Jeff left school at the at the end of my sophomore year to live in Boston with his band. I fell into another serious relationship that continued beyond college – that breakup I mentioned. By the time I was 25, I hadn’t thought about Jeff in ages.
But, on that night – that spring night, whispering with possibilities – all the giddiness of a schoolgirl crush rushed back. Jeff wasn’t the one who called my name – that was our mutual friend - but, he was the one I saw first and my heart somersaulted into my throat. The pushed up sleeves of his cream shirt set off his still sinewy arms. His long chestnut hair still fringed over his collar and, face to face for the first time, I noticed his striking eyes – amber, circled by green. We talked the whole night – he even admitted that he had asked our mutual friend about me two years earlier, but was told that I had a boyfriend. I felt the charge between us and wished that I hadn’t wasted all those years with my ex...
Jeff as a rocker in the early '90s...
and as a goofy dad now....
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