'The nape of his neck'
Warning: This has nothing to do with running. It also may have ‘cooties,’ in the first-grade sense of the word.
Twenty years ago I read a magazine story on Kathleen Turner in which she maintained it’s impossible for anyone to stay in love, that sustaining that level of emotional intensity is neither healthy nor humanly possible. Instead, she continued, every now and then she’d look at her husband, maybe admire the nape of his neck, and suddenly fall in love all over again.
This was just before July 12, when I made my own sacramental vow before a small gathering of family and friends. I was seeking marital advice wherever I could find it. Even from interviews of actresses I admired.
On the surface, we still don’t have much in common. I’m loud and talkative; he’s as quiet as they come. I like to be up before the sun; he goes to bed just hours before it rises. I sometimes drive too fast; he’s never been pulled over. I like grilled salmon and risotto; he’s more steak and potato wedges. We cancel each other’s votes when we go to the polls. We hate the way the other folds the laundry.
But look further and you’ll find two people who come from large families and the same middle-class neighborhoods; who went to the same schools; and who follow the same faith. Most importantly, they’ve always wanted the same things out of life. They don't argue over money or the children, but they'll fight fiercely over lost car keys or bringing in the trash bins. They both watch way too much Judge Judy for their own good.
This past Sunday, I suddenly had to spend all day and night proofing an entire book to make the printer deadline. (I did take a couple of hours for a prearranged movie, but otherwise, it was all work, all day.) Around 5, I accidentally erased hours’ worth of edits, which meant I’d not only work steadfastly until the next day, but now I’d rush to do it. The Sunday dinner I’d planned wasn’t happening. My nerves were frayed; my eyes were already watering. I was so frazzled, I didn’t even think to freak. Then before I knew it, he was in the kitchen preparing the special meal, working off my magazine recipes. Afterward, he quietly cleaned up. He bought me a foul-tasting, but highly effective energy drink across the street, with advice not to drink it until after 10 p.m. for the best results. And then he and the girls stayed in the living room while I tinkered away at my work station. He even left on the TV so I wouldn’t be spooked when he turned in for the night.
All night long I thought of him. And in the morning, when I made my deadline and could finally take a nap, I stared at him still sound asleep and for a moment I remembered what I’d read two decades earlier, when I was a woman about to become a wife. Kathleen, you were right.
Twenty years ago I read a magazine story on Kathleen Turner in which she maintained it’s impossible for anyone to stay in love, that sustaining that level of emotional intensity is neither healthy nor humanly possible. Instead, she continued, every now and then she’d look at her husband, maybe admire the nape of his neck, and suddenly fall in love all over again.
This was just before July 12, when I made my own sacramental vow before a small gathering of family and friends. I was seeking marital advice wherever I could find it. Even from interviews of actresses I admired.
On the surface, we still don’t have much in common. I’m loud and talkative; he’s as quiet as they come. I like to be up before the sun; he goes to bed just hours before it rises. I sometimes drive too fast; he’s never been pulled over. I like grilled salmon and risotto; he’s more steak and potato wedges. We cancel each other’s votes when we go to the polls. We hate the way the other folds the laundry.
But look further and you’ll find two people who come from large families and the same middle-class neighborhoods; who went to the same schools; and who follow the same faith. Most importantly, they’ve always wanted the same things out of life. They don't argue over money or the children, but they'll fight fiercely over lost car keys or bringing in the trash bins. They both watch way too much Judge Judy for their own good.
This past Sunday, I suddenly had to spend all day and night proofing an entire book to make the printer deadline. (I did take a couple of hours for a prearranged movie, but otherwise, it was all work, all day.) Around 5, I accidentally erased hours’ worth of edits, which meant I’d not only work steadfastly until the next day, but now I’d rush to do it. The Sunday dinner I’d planned wasn’t happening. My nerves were frayed; my eyes were already watering. I was so frazzled, I didn’t even think to freak. Then before I knew it, he was in the kitchen preparing the special meal, working off my magazine recipes. Afterward, he quietly cleaned up. He bought me a foul-tasting, but highly effective energy drink across the street, with advice not to drink it until after 10 p.m. for the best results. And then he and the girls stayed in the living room while I tinkered away at my work station. He even left on the TV so I wouldn’t be spooked when he turned in for the night.
All night long I thought of him. And in the morning, when I made my deadline and could finally take a nap, I stared at him still sound asleep and for a moment I remembered what I’d read two decades earlier, when I was a woman about to become a wife. Kathleen, you were right.
