non-sexual life partner (Aug 3, 06)
Like most of the US, Minnesota had its fair share of heat this summer. This past weekend was well over 100 degrees. I love warmth. Love. But last week was oppressive. The heat was confining and ugly.
My roommate, Jimmy, and I usually hang out on Monday nights. He has volleyball, and I usually have class, so we meet up somewhere at 9p.m. and either read, drink or talk. This past Monday, I decided to take advantage of the empty house, and the fact that I have a few weeks without classes. I took a long (cold) bath and dug into Brenda Miller's Seasons of the Body. (Fantastic collection of short stories). She was my professor last week (or was it two weeks ago?) during our intensive writers workshop in St Olaf. I adore Brenda (yes, I decided we are on a first name basis). I wish that I would have read her book before I took her class. There are so many questions I have for her, and I think it's ridiculous that I spent the week with her, and I didn't really take advantage of her wisdom.
Anyway, Monday night, my roommate came home, harassed me for taking a bath in the heat, ate some ice cream, grabbed a beer and then went out to our front porch. I decided to join him.
We live in one of those old beautiful houses with the big front porch facing the tree-lined street. I love it. We watch the neighborhood, we sit in the dark and eavesdrop on conversations of people walking to and from the gas station on the corner, but Monday night, we just waited.
It was going to rain.
I have not lived in the Midwest for years. I forgot how amazing summer storms are: lightening illumination; the stillness of the air before the storm breaks through; the thunder that rumbles and provokes; the cool gusts of wind which immobilize your being.
The temperature plummets.
The trees undulate.
The wind perfumes the air.
We: Jim, Bella and I wait in prefect peacefulness for the cool down, we wait for the sky to open up.
And then Jim turns to me and says, "You know, you have six months to get married."
"What?" I say laughing.
"You know I'm turning 30 in January?"
"Yea."
"Well you'll be 31 in November."
"Yea." Quite frankly, I thought he was stating the obvious. And I thought that he wasn't the kind of person who would try to pressure me into marriage because I'm getting 'too old.'
"Don't you remember the promise..."
I cut him off, "Holy shit."
How could I forget?
We made that promise to each other in high school. Jim was 16 or 17, I was 17 or 18. We promised to marry each other if we hadn't married others by the time he turned 30:
A vow made by two high school students maybe in the front seat of his mom's station wagon. Maybe behind the stage when they were in theater together, and he would sit on the floor, and she would put her head in his lap and let him play with her hair and he called her his sister. Maybe the vow was made on one of their many road trips or five-hour long phone conversations they shared. Maybe it was at a party with the 'cool kids' when she got too drunk, and he quoted Bible passages about turning water into wine. Maybe it was when they spoke llama language to each other from across the gym. But they agreed, that they would always have that out, that option, that love.
The promise was made when she was a child. The promise was made before he came out to her. Before he moved to Texas. Before he fell in love. Before she fell in love. Before she traveled the world. Before she met a man in her early 20 whom she thought she would spend the rest of her life with. Before she started teaching. Before the internet. Before cell phones. Before Tivo. Before Britney Spears. Before sex. Before love. Before so many years of friendships.
So, I said, "Well it looks like I need to find me a hubby, otherwise I'm gonna get stuck with this homo for the rest of my life."
And we laughed.
And we waited for the rain.
And we discussed who had the better chance of getting married in the next six months.
I finally retired to bed. It wasn't going to rain. It was 1:30a.m. and I turn into "crabby bitch pants" at work if I don't get 6 hours of sleep.
So Bella and I crawled in bed and I heard Jimmy climbing the stairs. I heard him getting ready for bed and eventually shutting his door and retiring for the night and then it hit:
Huge raindrops smacked against the house. Lighting created a strobe light through my window and I grabbed my cell phone and I sent my pseudo-future husband a little text message saying: It's raining. And in those words I meant this: I love you. You are my best friend. My brother. You're the Will to my Grace (although I think most times we're more like Jack and Karen). There will not be a wedding for either of us between now and January. But there will always be love.
Good night.
My roommate, Jimmy, and I usually hang out on Monday nights. He has volleyball, and I usually have class, so we meet up somewhere at 9p.m. and either read, drink or talk. This past Monday, I decided to take advantage of the empty house, and the fact that I have a few weeks without classes. I took a long (cold) bath and dug into Brenda Miller's Seasons of the Body. (Fantastic collection of short stories). She was my professor last week (or was it two weeks ago?) during our intensive writers workshop in St Olaf. I adore Brenda (yes, I decided we are on a first name basis). I wish that I would have read her book before I took her class. There are so many questions I have for her, and I think it's ridiculous that I spent the week with her, and I didn't really take advantage of her wisdom.
Anyway, Monday night, my roommate came home, harassed me for taking a bath in the heat, ate some ice cream, grabbed a beer and then went out to our front porch. I decided to join him.
We live in one of those old beautiful houses with the big front porch facing the tree-lined street. I love it. We watch the neighborhood, we sit in the dark and eavesdrop on conversations of people walking to and from the gas station on the corner, but Monday night, we just waited.
It was going to rain.
I have not lived in the Midwest for years. I forgot how amazing summer storms are: lightening illumination; the stillness of the air before the storm breaks through; the thunder that rumbles and provokes; the cool gusts of wind which immobilize your being.
The temperature plummets.
The trees undulate.
The wind perfumes the air.
We: Jim, Bella and I wait in prefect peacefulness for the cool down, we wait for the sky to open up.
And then Jim turns to me and says, "You know, you have six months to get married."
"What?" I say laughing.
"You know I'm turning 30 in January?"
"Yea."
"Well you'll be 31 in November."
"Yea." Quite frankly, I thought he was stating the obvious. And I thought that he wasn't the kind of person who would try to pressure me into marriage because I'm getting 'too old.'
"Don't you remember the promise..."
I cut him off, "Holy shit."
How could I forget?
We made that promise to each other in high school. Jim was 16 or 17, I was 17 or 18. We promised to marry each other if we hadn't married others by the time he turned 30:
A vow made by two high school students maybe in the front seat of his mom's station wagon. Maybe behind the stage when they were in theater together, and he would sit on the floor, and she would put her head in his lap and let him play with her hair and he called her his sister. Maybe the vow was made on one of their many road trips or five-hour long phone conversations they shared. Maybe it was at a party with the 'cool kids' when she got too drunk, and he quoted Bible passages about turning water into wine. Maybe it was when they spoke llama language to each other from across the gym. But they agreed, that they would always have that out, that option, that love.
The promise was made when she was a child. The promise was made before he came out to her. Before he moved to Texas. Before he fell in love. Before she fell in love. Before she traveled the world. Before she met a man in her early 20 whom she thought she would spend the rest of her life with. Before she started teaching. Before the internet. Before cell phones. Before Tivo. Before Britney Spears. Before sex. Before love. Before so many years of friendships.
So, I said, "Well it looks like I need to find me a hubby, otherwise I'm gonna get stuck with this homo for the rest of my life."
And we laughed.
And we waited for the rain.
And we discussed who had the better chance of getting married in the next six months.
I finally retired to bed. It wasn't going to rain. It was 1:30a.m. and I turn into "crabby bitch pants" at work if I don't get 6 hours of sleep.
So Bella and I crawled in bed and I heard Jimmy climbing the stairs. I heard him getting ready for bed and eventually shutting his door and retiring for the night and then it hit:
Huge raindrops smacked against the house. Lighting created a strobe light through my window and I grabbed my cell phone and I sent my pseudo-future husband a little text message saying: It's raining. And in those words I meant this: I love you. You are my best friend. My brother. You're the Will to my Grace (although I think most times we're more like Jack and Karen). There will not be a wedding for either of us between now and January. But there will always be love.
Good night.
posted by Annette Schiebout at
2:08 PM
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