half glasses

My husband thinks that I am writing today to announce that he was right. Or, more precisely, to announce that he was right once again. But I am actually writing as a way to say thank you. Maybe you can relate to our situation, or at least to fifty percent of it. I am a card-carrying Chronic Worrier, and he’s what I’ve come to term a Delusional Optimist. “Delusional” in the sense that he has this seemingly unshakable belief in good things to come – and to Chronic Worriers everywhere, this just does not seem reasonable. Or even very safe, really. Hit him up with the infamous “Worrier’s What-If” litany of concerns, for instance, and he fires back right on cue:

“What if the results are bad?”
”What if they’re not?”

”What if we lose more money?”
”What if we don’t?”

”What if it doesn’t get better?”
“What if it does?”

And on and on, just like that. It’s a simple thing, really, this patient ping-pong game that he plays with me whenever the need arises. A quiet refusal to buy into dread, rising panic, obsessive pre-planning, and the often-irrational need to control the uncontrollable. He’s not lecturing or scolding, not pulling out his soapbox or raising his voice. Never buying into my side, never backing down from his. Just calmly, yet relentlessly, offering an alternative perspective that – for all we know – has an equal or better shot at being the eventual outcome. When it turns out he’s right, he sure lets you know it. And gradually, I’ve come to recognize this as an ultimate symbol of his love -- this insistent yet caring way of coaxing me to be a better person.

None of us ever has complete control in this life; none of us knows the “perfect” way to muddle through every difficult situation. And not everyone believes in heaven and hell, angels and demons. But C.S. Lewis and others have observed that Satan – whom Christians term a fallen angel -- would patiently, gradually prod us toward accepting lower standards for ourselves. So I’d like to believe that true angels would do the opposite: gently nudge us into raising our frail and fractured human sights toward the hopeful, the joyful, the expectant … just a little bit at a time.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I haven’t always believed that angels may actually walk among us. But I do now.
I know proof when I see it.

of dragons and drawbridges

When I was little, I figured that marriage represented the answer to many of Life’s Big Problems, and that was why so many people did it. My teacher was married. Our mailman was married. My best friend’s parents were married. Not that I dreamed much about actually getting married myself. I had glasses and braces and looked a lot like Curious George, so I just assumed potential suitors would not exactly be tracking me down on their Tuffy bicycles. I never fantasized about dresses. I never picked out music or daydreamed about cakes and colors and bridesmaids. I most definitely did not fit the “Cinderella” mold. At the time, come to think of it, my haircut was more reminiscent of Robin Hood.

I’m certainly quite a bit older now; and incidentally, I did find a handsome and wonderful prince (my braces were finally gone, so maybe that helped). Agreeing to marry him was the best decisions of my life. But the credit for this goes to the man, not the marriage. There is a world of difference. And I wanted to note this firsthand, because there seems to be this cultural presumption that little girls and boys will eventually grow up, get married, start a family, manicure a lawn. We’ve built an astonishing number of services, products, and institutions around this idea. Maybe that’s why I’ve encountered some incredibly accomplished, interesting, attractive single people who seem to give off this oddly indistinct aura of apology because they aren’t attached to The One.

Let me just say this for the record. There are many days when I don’t understand why my husband, the prince, has not simply jumped on his horse, the Honda Element, and fled the castle. There are other days where he’s retreated, with good reason, about as far away as he can get; and he would have gone farther if not for a load-bearing wall or immovable piece of royal furniture. The women in my family grapple with this Mediterranean shortness of temper that, on very rare occasions and in the privacy of our own homes, can sort of flare up and flame the immediate area. My great aunt actually lifted – while wearing a hoop skirt and heels – the back end of a 1952 Chevy Bel Air when her dander was, shall we say, up. Now this is not to say that when it comes to faults and frailties, my beloved does not have a couple doozies of his own. I am just way too smart to mention them here. :)

There’s something I’d like any discouraged singles out there to consider: I know the dating scene can be horrible. I have been there. If felt like a series of secret dance steps that neither partner ever mastered completely. My toes got stepped on frequently; and if I’m not mistaken, there were even a couple of malicious shin-kicks in there. But if dating is like a mystery dance, then marriage is a three-legged race. You are, quite literally, bound together for better or worse. A surprising, sometimes stunning range of weaknesses will rear their ugly heads, on both sides of the table. And there is absolutely no way to conceal them, unless you plan to lock yourself in the bathroom for life. You are forced to either war night and day, or work it out between yourselves. In the process, you labor harder and grow closer than you ever thought possible … and you learn some astoundingly tough and transforming lessons along the way.

I would not trade my spouse for all the riches in the world. He is a cute, kindhearted, ever-so-slightly quirky and ideal complement for a person like me. I know this because we’d both already taken copious amounts of time getting comfortable with our own selves, before even considering the idea of mutual matrimony. And once you’ve really, truly reached that point, the idea of marriage itself becomes a nice-to-have … not a need-to-have.

indigenous people

Here’s what I think. There are two basic kinds of people, extroverts and introverts. Okay, this is not Sociology 101, and I’m not plagiarizing Carl Jung. I’m also not ridiculing our collective tendency to lump fellow humans into one of two groups, although think about that for a minute. Brown-eyed vs. blue-eyed. Republican vs. Democrat. People who like the toilet paper flap facing toward the back, vs. those who prefer it in front.

But I digress. What interests me are the labels themselves – or, more precisely, what they mean to us. Sure, the first group reaches out and the second one reflects. Social butterflies flitting amongst shrinking violets. We think of them as polar opposites – but are they?

I have a dear family member whom I refer to – privately, mind you – as Tigger. She bounds out of bed. She bounces through her workday. She ricochets through the week being chatty and chipper with everyone. I am in fact using her alias here intentionally, because if she learned I’d mentioned her she’d bounce right over and shoot me. But beyond that, you simply cannot help but love, admire and adore her. She lifts you up and leaves you grinning, and it’s completely natural and unrehearsed. I once tried to emulate her at a holiday luncheon and sounded like a loon. People actually paused mid-bite, forks suspended and eyebrows raised, to wonder if I needed urgent medical attention.

Now of course, I should have known better. Because when it comes to interrelating, I’m a natural-born sideliner. I watch. I consider. I observe the situation, normally while it’s taking place, often with me in it. I’m not shy by any means – on the contrary, I very much enjoy hearing what you have to say. I just like to be alone and think, always with that miniscule trace of reflective melancholy. And here’s what’s interesting: I cannot count the number of times my more outgoing brethren have accused me of “failing to be in the moment.”

We speak such a unique mix of languages, and many of them have little to do with cultural dialect. Of course there are times we’ll fail to understand each other. But when we as humans are confronted with something we don’t understand, why do we put so much energy into making it more like us? You extroverts shape the moment by acting upon it. We introverts frame it by analyzing, playing it back. And in so doing, we frequently make it more significant than the sum of its parts.

Not long ago, I attended an exhibit on ancient civilizations. It talked about the Aztecs, the Mayans, the Incas, the Zapotech, and it really was fascinating. One contributed modern language. Another perfected cutting tools. Still others advanced transportation, weaving methods, agriculture. But here’s what I found most striking: All of these societies had members who functioned as warriors, and others who served as scribes. The warriors fought and foraged -- made sure the tribe was fed, clothed and sheltered. The scribes watched and memorized – recorded events for posterity. One group action-takers, the other passive thinkers. Both collaborating, in two entirely different ways, to make sure their people lived on.