Posts from — June 2007

“Relationships take compromise.” Is there any piece of relationship advice more ubiquitous than this? Personally, the first time I heard it, I hoped it wasn’t true. It sounded like a grim reality, one where I’d have to sacrifice what I wanted and find some way to do what the other person wanted even though it was stupid. And plus I’d have to smile and not care if they thanked me. All I could do was pray that the willingness to act like this would come with adulthood, bundled in a package with things like checkbook balancing and an interest in housekeeping. In the meantime, I thought, I ‘d continue as I was, skipping out of relationships that didn’t work, managing money by incantation, and dropping my stuff on the floor.

As I grew older, I realized that my heart only had so much give in it and if I wanted to keep it soft and alive, I’d better stop throwing it around willy-nilly and look for a stable relationship with someone I could love for a long time. “This could be cool” was no longer a good enough reason to hook up with someone. But what was? I started reading relationship books and found that though there was a lot of advice about how to get what you want in a relationship, it all basically boiled down to two suggestions:

1. Make a list of all the qualities you want in an ideal partner, visualize him or her, and you will attract that partner.
2. Set boundaries about what you will and won’t accept so you won’t get taken advantage of.

Well, who knows. Neither of these recommendations turned out to be useful for me. The opposite advice would have been more helpful. I wish I had read something like this:

1. Don’t assume that you’re the final word on what’s good for you.
My second to last boyfriend was everything I could have asked for: smart, cute, funny, same religion, no ex-wives, wanted kids, good job, close with his family, and, to top it off, our parents were friends.  So I moved in with him and everyone started placing bets on whether we’d spring for a big wedding or elope. One night we were sitting at our beautiful dining room table eating a lovely meal prepared in our fabulous kitchen and we had nothing to talk about, nothing whatsoever. I could hear him breathing. I thought, “Why does he have to breathe like that? Can’t he breathe like a normal person?” Uh oh. Apparently, I didn’t even like the way this guy breathed. This did not bode well. Mr. Looks Perfect was Mr. Dead Wrong. I did us both a huge favor and moved out, like the next week.

About a year later, I fell in love again, this time, with someone my friends (understandably) deemed Mr. Unbelievably Wrong. He had been separated for one month from his wife of 18 years. The divorce was a raging mess and it looked like he was going to be broke. We were not of the same cultural or religious background. He had a small child who burst into tears every time my name came up, and so on. But I fell completely, madly in love with him: his voice, his face, his skin, his ears, his glasses, the backs of his hands, his total his-iness. It felt choiceless to both of us. To this day, nine years later, the main thing we have in common is that we totally love each other. I have no idea why. So what are you going to do?

2. Let your boundaries have soft edges.
Whenever people say, “just set clear boundaries” as a solution, I get a little suspicious. Of course it’s good to expect others to treat you with respect. Definitely. But sometimes what we call boundaries are really reservoirs of fear. For example. I have a tremendous need for privacy and solitude. When I go for too long without them, I begin to feel unsettled and nervous. My husband, however, can’t understand why anyone would NOT want to feel the closeness of the one they love 24/7. To him this is sweet and normal, but to me it’s claustrophobic and bizarre. When we moved in together, I made my case very clearly and explained to him that spending some undisturbed time alone would aid me in becoming an adoring wife, as opposed to a harridan with snakes for hair. He nodded solemnly. About five marital minutes later (maybe a month), I told him I was going to go into my office for a few hours to do some alone time. “But it’s Saturday,” he said, and mimicked a pouty baby mouth. My heart sank. A few days later, he did the one thing I begged him never to do: disturb my privacy by talking to me while I was in the bathroom. To this day, he remains overwhelmingly interested in everything I do, everywhere I go, everything I think. Maybe I sound like a bitch, but this makes me insane. When I go upstairs, he asks me what I’m going to do when I get there. If I’m reading, he wants to know what and if I say I’m tired, he wants to know why. My comings and goings are of great interest to him and he marks both carefully. He continues to step all over pretty reasonable (to me) boundaries, like please don’t call me at the office before 11 because that’s my writing time. I’m a writer, so this is very important to me! Each time the phone rings at 9A and I see it’s him, I grab it thinking something must be horribly wrong. He says, “I was driving to work and just wanted to say hi.” I know it sounds terribly sweet, but after a while it actually starts to feel like, why is this guy ignoring me? I tried many strategies to get what I wanted: loving talks, angry screaming, showing him articles in magazines that said how right I was—but nothing worked. Finally, out of sheer frustration, I caved. The next time he called me in the morning, I cleared my mind, put work aside, picked up the phone and we started to chat. Nothing earth shattering, just what are you doing today and stuff like that. Having consciously set my own agenda aside, almost immediately I heard what this little chat meant to him. He was cozying up with me before heading into another stressful workday. It was like he wanted to give me one more hug. My heart opened. I remembered how much I loved him. I saw his phone call, not as disrespect for my boundaries, but as a display of vulnerability. When we hung up, it was with a feeling of sweetness and softness. My nerves were calm. My mind was clear. The balance that I thought could only come from privacy actually came from dropping my idea about how much I needed privacy.

I’m not saying that every time someone crosses your boundary you should put your wishes aside and feel sorry for them. But try to come as close to your boundary as you can. Feel the tenderness and shakiness that surround it, both for the one who crouches behind it and the one who approaches. See what it’s like to let your heart take it all in.

Now, whenever I hear a single friend say something like, “but I can only be with someone who has no children/celebrates Christmas/is a vegan,” I think to myself, I hope the next single parent/Jewish/carnivore you meet will stop your mind with the power of love.

Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche, from “Conquering Fear” (Based on a seminar conducted in 1979 for teachers in Shambhala Training, a series of weekend programs on meditation and the view of warriorship):

The starting point on the path of fearlessness is the discovery of fear. We find ourselves fearful, frightened, even petrified by circumstances. This ubiquitous nervousness provides us with a stepping stone, so that we can step over our fear. We have to make a definite move to cross over the boundary from cowardice to bravery. If we do so properly, the other side of our cowardice contains bravery.

We may not discover bravery right away. Instead, beyond our nervousness, we find a shaky tenderness. We are still quivering, but we are shaking with tenderness rather than bewilderment. That shaky vulnerability contains an element of sadness, but not in the sense of feeling badly about ourself or feeling deprived. Rather, we feel a natural sense of fullness which is tender and sad.

Discovering these facets of fearlessness is preparation for the further journey on the warrior’s path. If the warrior does not feel alone and sad, then he or she can be corrupted very easily. In fact, such a person may not be a warrior at all. To be a good warrior, one has to feel sad and lonely, but rich and resourceful at the same time. This makes the warrior sensitive to every aspect of phenomena: to sights, smells, sounds and feelings. In that sense, the warrior is also an artist, appreciating whatever goes on in the world. Everything is extremely vivid. The rustling of your armor or the sound of rain drops falling on your coat is very loud. Because you are so sensitive, the fluttering of occasional butterflies around you is almost an insult.

“Next year,” I think at each wedding anniversary. “Next year may be the last one—I’m not sure how much more of this relationship stuff I can take…” This past weekend was our 9th. We spent a few days in Portland, ME, taking long walks in the sunshine, eating at amazing restaurants (go Hugo’s), and staying in bed for a long time. Nine years of marriage. I never dreamt it could be this way: this wonderful, this awful, this empowering, this restrictive, this profound, this stupid—this ongoing. I know that 9 years (13, including pre-marriage) isn’t like the longest relationship of all time, but still it’s a pretty long time, certainly longer than I ever thought I’d last. Not because I didn’t want love, but I didn’t really trust that anyone would love me for real. Truth be told, I didn’t trust myself to love without later finding out I had been mistaken all along and it was time to run away. I guess I thought I’d get bored, he’d get bored, one of us would tire of something essential and unchangeable about the other: too needy, too messy, too distant, too here, too gone.

Interestingly, all these fears came true. I can’t trust either of us to remain loving in the right way. We did get bored with each other. We’ve become exhausted to the point of comatose about certain attributes in the other. I see him as clingy, demanding, in my face. He always wants to talk about things. He wants to spend time with me, doing things together. (What?! Why does he try to control me like this??) To him, I spend too much time on other priorities and he asks himself: Aren’t I important to her? Why does she avoid working on our relationship? (“Our relationship is the most important thing is my life,” he says. “YOU are the most important thing in your life.”)

Once again, all true. I do want to spend more time apart. He does want to spend more time together. I love working more than being at home and he feels the opposite. I often get more enjoyment out of doing things alone; he from doing them together. And it’s not just about how we are with each other, there are complaints about the other’s very personhood. Me: I live with a bossy packrat who needs unheard-of amounts of attention and doesn’t understand my needs. I feel so alone. Him: How did I end up with a self-absorbed helpless person who leaves all the details of life up to me and runs away at the first sign of trouble? I feel so alone.

We came into marriage with particular wishes and personalities and, nine years hence, we remain fully sequestered with them, pretty much in solitary confinement.

Here’s the funny part. So what. It totally doesn’t matter because while we bounce from hissy fit to hissy fit, there’s something else going on. It’s very mysterious. There’s a current of energy between us, carrying us. When we become utterly despairing or sleepy, the current shifts in our best interest. A fight or an issue or a mood arise that makes us reopen to each other. Painful as it can be, I can’t help but notice that each ferocious wave that drags us out to sea and almost drowns us, then throws us back ashore, leaving us someplace a little further inland than before. Until the next wave of whatever—anger, disappointment, crankiness, ridiculousity—drags us out again, we gasp for air, and are tossed back on our asses, looking around going what the hell just happened.

No one ever answers that question. But somehow, the next wave brings another clue. We just wait for it and when it crashes on us, try to let it carry us out, far from shore, buoyed by trust until we find ourselves back on dry land. This is how it works. If we try to create conditions to prevent ourselves from ever being overwhelmed, we fail. S*@t happens. If in the midst of the overwhelm, we try to tell stories about why it happened or whose fault it is, we drown for sure. The only thing that can hold us together is to hold on to each other and hope that neither one gives up and lets the other drown.

A good relationship has little tension. When there is a fight, the pair kisses and makes up. A great relationship can weather enormous tension that, once gone, leaves a couple, not more in love, but more entwined. This is what happens with us. It doesn’t always feel good, but I am quite impressed by it.

Although it lacks rhyme, there is something very trustworthy and sane about this rhythm. Unfortunately, we don’t believe it until after the fact and instead keep hoping that the other one will achieve some serious personal growth to prevent this from ever happening again. But no amount of relationship strategies, “I statements,” or self-help can control for discomfort. Whatever you think will solve your relationship problem—compromise, setting boundaries, selflessness—is rarely sufficient. He and I aren’t in control. Love is. Each of us has to figure out what this means.

The only bankable truth I’ve discovered is that the gate to love is always open, but the entry is secret. If the secret were to be whispered in our ear, we’d each be told something different. All we can do is listen for it as we would to a symphony in which interest in individual movements has been sacrificed for curiosity about the whole. At least for one more year.

predictable self-deceptions
their consequences
and antidotes

there are 9 of each

I am right.
Everyone else wrong.
I trust that things are righter than I can ever know.

I am needed.
So you better treat me right.
I give without agenda.

I am important.
I will overwhelm you with my credentials.
I have no need to spread propaganda about myself.

I am special.
Life will never live up to me.
I’m happy to be an ordinary person.

I have studied the situation thoroughly.
So leave me alone.
I trust the right knowledge to come to me at the right time.

I am secure.
As long as I don’t take any chances.
I believe that when I leap, the net will appear.

I have no problems
And therefore, no interest in yours.
It’s okay to cry and be hopeless sometimes.

I’m in charge.
Of you, so you better do what I say.
I offer my power to others for their protection.

I love everyone and everyone loves me.
So it’s time to relax with the remote and a beer.
I have fearless belief in myself and work hard on my own agenda.

The enneagram has endless wisdom, from which I’ve drawn to write what’s above. As I was typing it, I noticed that taken together, the 9 blue statements make a pretty good all-purpose creed.

memphis slim at antone’s in austin, tx, 1986-ish
(mel brown under the hat behind him, sitting at the b-3)

Buddhists say that in every moment there are 108 opportunities to wake up fully and completely, to transcend the sorrows of this world and attain bliss without end. You might find your moment in the sunset or the blossoming of a flower, from making love, hearing your teacher’s voice, taking a sip of water, falling ill, or stubbing your toe. For me, one such moment came while listening to the blues in a bar in Austin, Texas where I worked as a bartender. For a few hours, I transcended the sorrows of this world and felt around in the space of bliss without end like a blind man in a hotel room. I never actually saw it, but I know I was there.

On this particular night, Memphis Slim was playing at this club, Antone’s: Austin’s Home of the Blues. He was an influential piano player and blues shouter who had expatriated himself to Paris in the 60s. Tonight, my night off, he was going to play his first stateside gig in more than twenty years. Joining him was the guitar player with whom he had recorded in the 50s, Matt “Guitar” Murphy.

I came in through the screen door in the alley out back, waved to whoever was tending bar that night, kissed my friends hello, and made my way to my favorite seat-directly stage right, a few feet from the steps leading up to it. From here, I could just about read the set list on the floor by the mic stand. I looked around and realized that 250 of the 300 or so people in the room were my friends and acquaintances and that I was seated amidst these lovely people in the best seat in the best house, getting ready to hear the best music. So I sat back and swallowed a tab of Ecstasy.

The house band played a few numbers before bringing Memphis Slim up to a standing ovation. And you almost had to stand to see all of him anyway-he was so tall, so elegant and slender, black-haired still except for one beautiful gray diamond at the center of his forehead. He sat down and began with “Mother Earth,” one of his best-known songs.

I don’t care how great you are,
Don’t give a damn what you’re worth.
When it all comes down,
You’ve got to come back to Mother Earth.

His playing was completely relaxed and his voice boomed out, commanding and round. Everyone was already in love with him, with where he came from, who he was, what this night represented, the songs he played-but he didn’t care. He just played. It was very simple and totally perfect. I listened on. My new boyfriend, the guitar player, was on stage backing Memphis Slim, and he sounded like a genius to me-knew exactly where to fill, where to lay back, where to mimic the old records, where to throw in something completely new, all in service to the song. Between numbers, he would look to make sure I was still there and wink when he saw me. This was already ecstasy, no?

I began to feel happier and happier, maybe even beyond the beyond of happiness. Was it the drug? Or was it the music, present and real, emanating from a generation that was just about to pass on? Maybe it was the warmth I felt toward my friends or that I was in love with my new boyfriend, on stage, playing like a dream, so subtle, so exact. Soon these thoughts and feelings passed out of ordinary existence and became like songs themselves-songs of home, of rest, and of contentment. I listened to how they were contained in the music I was hearing, and how they weren’t. With each note, each perfect fill, each full stop, my sense of happiness escalated. I began to ride great waves of wellbeing. At a certain point, I wasn’t sure if I could handle much more.

What comes after happiness? Have you ever asked yourself that? Well I took a little peak over the edge and saw the incinerating quality of bliss. It could singe you and scorch you and there wouldn’t be anything left. I drew back and breathed, long and deep. Then something ceased to be and its cessation is what caused me to notice it, like when you turn off a television you hadn’t realized was on. I stopped being afraid. I stopped being anywhere but right there, on the spot, and simply being there fully was delight itself. I realized that until this point, my entire life-every decision, every relationship, every job, every haircut, every word-had been driven by fear. I saw that this was completely, utterly unnecessary and I started to laugh. How silly I’d been to spend my whole life thinking anything could harm me! Everything was perfectly fine exactly as it was, always had been and always would be. The times I had been happy and the times I had been sad were just moments stacked in perfect sequence to create the perfect composition that was the perfect now. I drew in the antenna that checks the environment for malicious content because there was nothing to guard against, nothing at all. There was a sudden feeling of great space and in that space I saw that what had appeared as fear was actually just another form of ecstasy. This is what I saw, what I knew. Then, like every moment, it passed into non-being-along with the song I was hearing, the song I wasn’t hearing, along with Memphis Slim, the Blues itself, and all those friendly waves and kisses. I was alone again with my conventional mind. So I exhaled and came back to Mother Earth.

clifford & albert king & a flying v

One year ago, a dear friend died suddenly. He was the founder of a blues club I worked in. But that doesn’t really describe him. This man, Clifford Antone, devoted everything he owned and everything he was to blues music and musicians. It’s not like he was a saint (see below), but in a sense, he was (see below).

He had been to prison twice, convicted of selling marijuana. Not a few joints on the street corner either, more like several tons on a plane from Mexico. Whatever he earned, he spent it all, every penny, on this music. He opened a nightclub in Austin, Texas in 1975 and brought blues icon Muddy Waters in for several weeks. Blues was not exactly popular in Texas at that time. When Muddy arrived in what was then a podunk Texas town and met this white, hippie college-kid club owner, he was not quite sure where he had landed. But, like everyone who passed through the doors of Antone’s, he had entered the world of Clifford. The stage was stocked with the best equipment—vintage amps and collectable guitars in perfect condition. Wanting to accompany Muddy was a group of local musicians that eventually included Stevie and Jimmie Vaughan and at least a dozen other exceptionally soulful musicians. Muddy was their idol. In the window was a framed photo of him, garlanded with flowers. Sitting in the audience waiting for the show to begin was just about nobody except for Clifford. And so it began. After Muddy came Howlin‘ Wolf, Clifton Chenier, Albert King, B.B. King, Sunnyland Slim, and everybody else. Eventually, he launched a blues record store and a blues record label. When I arrived in 1985, the legend was in full bloom and, although Muddy and Howlin’ Wolf had passed, every other living icon was taking the stage at Antone’s like it was the coolest oasis in the desert. Which it was. Some came for a night, some came for a few months, and some, like blues harpist James Cotton and Muddy Waters’ piano player Pinetop Perkins, came to live. Albert Collins, John Lee Hooker, Otis Rush, Buddy Guy, Bobby “Blue” Bland, Jimmy Rogers—the list goes on and on—played night after night, backed by the stellar, mind-blowing, forget-ever-trying-to-explain-it Antone’s House Band. It was the most soulful place in the world. I am totally not exaggerating.

I worked with Clifford for almost 10 years, first as a cocktail waitress at his club, then a bartender, then the manager of his record label. We spent some crazy times together and had lots of agreements and disagreements. It was deep. In the mid-90s, I moved away and our contact dwindled in the intervening decade. Just a few weeks before he died, I was in Austin visiting. Cliff and I had dinner together and there was nothing but love. We spent several hours in sweet reminiscence. Remember the time Doug Sahm almost pushed me (Susan) into a swimming pool because I wouldn’t give the band a draw on the next night’s pay? (I didn’t have any money…) Remember when Albert King fired his band in the middle of a gig? Remember the Japanese record label that wanted to license one of our records because they “had listened to it and were terrified?” (I think they meant something like “we were filled with terrific-ness.”)

Almost all the people we idolized were dead. His club still booked blues, but rock acts and comedians brought in the profits. He was teaching a class at the University of Texas called “The Blues According to Clifford Antone” and this was his new stage. He loved turning kids on to his musical heroes. But his heart was left in the past. The world he loved, gave everything to, where he had staked his soul, was gone. “When Albert (Collins) died, that was it for me,” he said. I think he already felt a bit like a ghost.

Last year, he died at the age of 56 of a heart attack. Out of nowhere. When I went online to read about Cliff’s passing in the Austin paper, the caption simply read, “Clifford Antone, 1949–2006.” Above the headline was a black and white photograph of him from the late 80s, in his record store. I was standing on one side of him and on the other was the other employee of Antone’s Record label, Connie. We were holding the company’s latest albums in our arms, pretending to show the covers to Clifford, who was smiling. I looked at my own face and stopped. Who was that young woman? Who was now looking back at her? Where was all the music? I remembered the exuberance and inspiration and wildness of that time, and I felt so happy and so sad. But all of it is gone, everything in that photograph is gone, somehow. Record albums are as good as gone. Connie lives in Brooklyn with her husband and their little baby girl. Clifford is in the ground. I’m sitting here typing this in Boston, looking at the picture of the three of us tacked to my bulletin board, surrounded by notes for a new book I’m writing, a picture of my husband and I at our wedding, and numerous Tibetan Buddhist symbols and deities. Outside the window, spring leaves dim the sunshine that splashes across my desk in winter.

Sun and shade, past and present, happy and sad, here and gone. This is our life.

Today’s New York Times has an op-ed piece entitled, “Authentic? Never Mind” by Paul Krugman. It’s about how presidential candidates are trying to appear authentic. (Oxymoron.) Fred Thompson, for example, switched from a Lincoln Continental to a pickup truck to appear authentic during his Senate run. Does anyone really fall for #(@) like this?

Substituting the image of authenticity for authenticity is dangerous. When you can’t tell the difference, anyone can lie to you about anything. You can lie to yourself.

Some examples:
Ladies with Wedding Scrapbooks. When I was on the Oprah show a few years ago (talking about The Hard Questions to ask before marriage), one of the guests was a woman who had a bridal scrapbook. In it were pictures of gowns, flower arrangements, and wedding rings that she might like. There were lists of caterers and business cards of wedding bands (music, not rings). For the groom, she had selected photos of various tuxedos. The problem? She didn’t even have a boyfriend. I felt sad. Instead of looking for love, this young woman was seeking to cast someone in the role of groom. She had the costumes all picked out and the script written. Mr. Husband was a staging necessity.

Christina Aguilera. (Or Mariah Carey) Whenever I hear one of these singers, I want them to SHUT UP. Do they have astonishing voices? Yes. Range, power, technique: check, check, check. But there is no feel. They’re pretending to be singers. There is no sense of anything but performance, nothing of soulfulness. All the melisma, escalating hand flutters, and pained expressions in the world will never make one single moment of authenticity, the kind that you hear when the song is emanating from the inside out, not the other way around. You can excuse Britney or Madonna (whom I love) because they don’t have a choice. They aren’t gifted with great voices. They can carry a tune and surround themselves with beats, style, dancers, and costumes and it’s all good. But when you hear someone pimping a real voice, it makes me VERY UPSET.

We seem to have lost all common sense about what is genuine and what is pretending to be genuine.

We suffer from image poisoning.

“Never accept responsibility without authority.”

I thought that to move to the “next level,” I had to take on more responsibility. I didn’t pay so much attention to who actually had the authority to make decisions about these responsibilities. Power (or whatever you want to call it) comes from more authority, not more responsibility.

So now I work in a room by myself which makes the whole thing a lot easier. (Most of the time.)

I heard that Sam Cooke dreamt the song A Change is Gonna Come,woke up and wrote it down. It scared him. He thought it meant he was going to die.

The song sounds like this.

Lately, I’ve been listening to it repeatedly. Like maybe hundreds of times in the last several months. It makes me cry every single time. I’m trying to figure out why…

I was born by the river
In a little tent
And just like the river
I’ve been running ever since

The “in a little tent” part just kills me for some reason. And we’ve all been running since the day we were born.

It’s been a long time coming
A long time coming
But I know change is gonna come
Oh yes

We keep longing no matter what…

It’s been too hard living
But I’m afraid to die
Because I don’t know what’s up there
Beyond the sky

How much more perfectly and succinctly can this fear be expressed? We don’t really know what’s going on or why we’re here. The only people who say they do seem not all that bright to me.

It’s been a long time coming
A long time coming
But I know change is gonna come
Oh yes

But still we long.

I go to the movies
And I go downtown
Somebody keeps telling me
Don’t hang around

And the confusion creates the poison of hate. Plus when I think if anyone being racist to Sam Cooke I just want to cry and cry.

It’s been a long time coming
A long time coming
But I know change is gonna come
Oh yes

But still we long.

Then I go to my brother
And I say brother help me please
But he winds up knocking me
Back down on my knees

And still poison grows. Cruel responses are real and I don’t know what to do.

There have been times that I thought
I couldn’t last for long
But now I think I’m able to carry on

When I see the courage people have to renew themselves and carry on, I think it is the most moving thing in the entire world.

It’s been a long time coming
A long time coming
But I know change is gonna come
Oh yes

When I hear faith like this, I feel so grateful. Maybe it’s true.

So I guess what the song sounds like to me is

Life is suffering
But there is basic goodness
Our biggest fear is not-knowing
Plus everything is impermanent: why?
But there is basic goodness
And also poison
But there is basic goodness
And also poison
But I can be brave
I have faith.

what questions can you ask yourself to see if you’re ready for marriage? could i devise a short quiz for readers to test their readiness? i love things like this. a chance to try to say something i believe to be helpful, in women’s magazine-speak. without being a liar or a fool. challenge to self: try to point out the difference between self-absorption, a relationship, and the broken heart that comes from really loving. without saying any of those things. out in august. allegedly. you never know.

when you think of getting married, which image comes to mind?
a. i’m wearing my dream wedding dress and he’s just slipped the
perfect diamond ring on my finger
b. the wedding is over and we’re walking through the door of our home
post-honeymoon, exhausted and happy
c. we’re standing on the porch, arms around each other, waving as our
first child goes off to university

my dream husband
a. is handsome, fun, and romantic–i’m the envy of all my girlfriends
b. is my very best friend–and a sexy one, at that
c. has shown me again and again that he has integrity, emotional
depth, and the willingness to try to love me even when he has no idea
how

the very best thing about being married is
a. no more worry about dating!
b. creating a secure home life and starting a family
c. him, him, him–he’s the one i want to share life with and give my love to as best i can

i’ll know he really loves me when
a. i don’t have to remind him of my birthday–he shows up with flowers and a dinner reservation on his own
b. i call to cancel a date because i’m not well (physically or emotionally) and he wants to come over anyway
c. we have opposing views on something critical–like children or religion–and instead of becoming angry or remote, he’s genuinely curious about why i think the way i do

i’ll know he’s the one when
a. he says he’ll call me on saturday and i completely trust that he will
b. we discuss christmas plans and he suggests we go together to both our family’s celebrations
c. we have a huge, earth-shattering argument and the next day all i can think about is how all this is hurting him too

mostly “a” answers: how wonderful to be involved in a real romance! enjoy this stage for all it’s worth, but recognize that just because you love each other doesn’t mean you can create a life together that you both love. if you haven’t yet shared views of life (home, money, religion, and so on) it’s premature to think about marriage. if you find that you are thinking about it, you’re probably in a relationship with a fantasy more than a real live man. have a great time, but don’t make any commitments just yet…

mostly “b” answers: the romance has expanded to include friendship. you not only love each other, you like each other. this is a big deal, really what we all long for. but a powerful personal connection still doesn’t mean that this relationship is guaranteed to work. the key question here is can this relationship expand to include everything else that’s important to you both, such as family, friends, professional dreams, and spiritual beliefs. when a relationship is this good, it’s so tempting to think “well we love each other, so i’m sure it will work out somehow,” the famous last words of many divorced couples. when feelings are this strong, it takes maturity and commitment to maintain the distance needed to make a skillful long-term decision. if you can both do so without freaking each other out, well now we’re talking about something REAL.

mostly “c” answers: you’re already married, whether or not the commitment has been made formally. a wedding is more like an acknowledgment of what has already transpired, not the hope of creating something down the line. you’re lovers and friends, and have developed faith and respect in each other’s character. you know he’s an amazing person separate from what kind of boyfriend he makes. when you can hold love, passion, trust, disagreement and confusion together with equal focus on what is best for each of you, it’s time to nail this thing down.