I am fat with love! Husky with ardor! Morbidly obese with devotion! A
happy, busy bumblebee of marital enthusiasm. I positively hum around
him, fussing and fixing. I have become a strange thing. I have become a
wife. I find myself steering the ship of conversations – bulkily,
unnaturally – just so I can say his name aloud. I have become a wife, I
have become a bore, I have been asked to forfeit my Independent Young
Feminist card. I don'd care. I balance his checkbook, I trim his hair.
I"ve gotten so retro, at one point I will probably use the word
pocketbook, shuffling out the door in my swingy tweed coat, my lips
painted red, on the way to the beauty parlor. Nothing bothers me.
Everything seems like it will turn out fine, every bother transformed
into an amusing story to be told over dinner. So I killed a hobo today,
honey … hahahaha! Ah, we have fun!
Nick is like a good stiff drink: He gives everything the correct
perspective. Not a different perspective, the correct perspective. With
Nick, I realize it actually, truly doesn'd matter if the electricity
bill is a few days late, if my latest quiz turns out a little lame. (My
most recent, I'm not joking: "What kind of tree would you be?" Me, I'm
an apple tree! This means nothing!) It doesn'd matter if the new Amazing
Amy book has been well and duly scorched, the reviews vicious, the
sales a stunning plummet after a limp start. It doesn'd matter what
color I paint our room, or how late traffic makes me, or whether our
recycling really, truly does get recycled. (Just level with me, New
York, does it?) It doesn'd matter, because I have found my match. It's
Nick, laid-back and calm, smart and fun and uncomplicated. Untortured,
happy. Nice. Big penis.
All the stuff I don'd like about myself has been pushed to the back of
my brain. Maybe that is what I like best about him, the way he makes me.
Not makes me feel, just makes me. I am fun. I am playful. I am game. I
feel naturally happy and entirely satisfied. I am a wife! It's weird to
say those words. (Seriously, about the recycling, New York – come on,
just a wink.)
We do silly things, like last weekend we drove to Delaware because
neither of us have ever had sex in Delaware. Let me set the scene,
because now it really is for posterity. We cross the state line –
Welcome to Delaware!, the sign says, and also: Small Wonder, and also:
The First State, and also: Home of Tax-Free Shopping.
Delaware, a state of many rich identities.
I point Nick down the first dirt road I see, and we rumble five minutes
until we hit pine trees on all sides. We don'd speak. He pushes his seat
back. I pull up my skirt. I am not wearing undies, I can see his mouth
turn down and his face go slack, the drugged, determined look he gets
when he's turned on. I climb atop him, my back to him, facing the
windshield. I'm pressed against the steering wheel, and as we move
together, the horn emits tiny bleats that mimic me, and my hand makes a
smearing noise as I press it against the windshield. Nick and I can come
anywhere; neither of us gets stage fright, it's something we"re both
rather proud of. Then we drive right back home. I eat beef jerky and
ride with bare feet on the dashboard.
We love our house. The house that Amazing Amy built. A Brooklyn
brownstone my parents bought for us, right on the Promenade, with the
big wide-screen view of Manhattan. It's extravagant, it makes me feel
guilty, but it's perfect. I battle the spoiled-rich-girl vibe where I
can. Lots of DIY. We painted the walls ourselves over two weekends:
spring green and pale yellow and velvety blue. In theory. None of the
colors turned out like we thought they would, but we pretend to like
them anyway. We fill our home with knickknacks from flea markets; we buy
records for Nick's record player. Last night we sat on the old Persian
rug, drinking wine and listening to the vinyl scratches as the sky went
dark and Manhattan switched on, and Nick said, "This is how I always
pictured it. This is exactly how I pictured it."
On weekends, we talk to each other under four layers of bedding, our
faces warm under a sunlit yellow comforter. Even the floorboards are
cheerful: There are two old creaky slats that call out to us as we walk
in the door. I love it, I love that it is ours, that we have a great
story behind the ancient floor lamp, or the misshapen clay mug that sits
near our coffeepot, never holding anything but a single paper clip. I
spend my days thinking of sweet things to do for him – go buy a
peppermint soap that will sit in his palm like a warm stone, or maybe a
slim slice of trout that I could cook and serve to him, an ode to his
riverboat days. I know, I am ridiculous. I love it, though – I never
knew I was capable of being ridiculous over a man. It's a relief. I even
swoon over his socks, which he manages to shed in adorably tangled
poses, as if a puppy carried them in from another room.
It is our one-year anniversary and I am fat with love, even though
people kept telling and telling us the first year was going to be so
hard, as if we were naive children marching off to war. It wasn'd hard.
We are meant to be married. It is our one-year anniversary, and Nick is
leaving work at lunchtime; my treasure hunt awaits him. The clues are
all about us, about the past year together:
Whenever my sweet hubby gets a cold
It is this dish that will soon be sold.
