Later this month, my husband Erick and I will celebrate a dozen years of marriage; we’ve spent almost 15 years of our lives as a couple.

Erick and I aren’t a particularly glamorous, romantic, or even interesting couple, but we did “meet cute;” we’d stand up pretty well alongside those couples in When Harry Met Sally… who tell the true stories of how they met.

You can read Erick’s version here.

I was his waitress.

Summer 1999. I was working at a now-defunct restaurant in Greenwich, Connecticut called “Organic Planet.” It was about as much of a hole-in-the-wall as you can get in Greenwich: a tiny space with about 8 tables, next to a vacuum cleaner repair shop on a nondescript street off of Greenwich’s main drag. But it dished up smoothies and tempeh salads to clientele like Tommy Hilfiger. The Tommy Hilfiger. (He was a very generous tipper.)

I had no previous waitressing experience, and was biding my time until I moved to New York City to begin a teaching job that fall. I figured everybody should waitress at least once in their lives, and that I’d probably learn a thing or two. As it turned out, I learned how to pronounce “quinoa,” and I met my future husband.

Erick was working (and often sleeping) at the Greenwich office of a hedge fund startup. The office’s air conditioning was turned off on the weekends, but Erick worked on the weekends and it was summer. So occasionally he’d bring his work to the air-conditioned, tofu scented paradise that was Organic Planet.

My first impression: “There’s a young, skinny Asian guy who seems nice and probably won’t try to hit on me. But why is he lugging around that huge stack of papers?”

Whenever Erick and I tell this story to others, he highlights his subtle strategy for wooing me. Throughout most of the summer, his plan of attack involved timing his arrival for 7:50 PM — Organic Planet closed at 8 — so that he could be the last customer in the place and therefore have more time to talk with me. He’d always order a banana smoothie.

It was only later, after we’d been dating a while, that he told me how precisely he’d orchestrated this. And I, in turn, told him how his plan had driven me nuts.

Because by 7:45, I’d figured that nobody else was going to come in and order a smoothie: Who drinks smoothies at 8 PM? I was anxious to close up shop and get home. So I’d clean the blender.

Cleaning the blender was one of the worst parts of waitressing. Most of the other dishes we’d just slide back to the dishwashing staff, but the blender station was up front, so cleaning it was the waitstaff’s responsibility. Blenders, as you may know, have multiple parts, including blades. Cleaning them involves disassembling the parts, scrubbing under and between the little blades, and then reassembling the whole thing.

As soon as I set the neatly scrubbed blender atop its base, in would walk Erick, asking for a smoothie.

As Erick and I told this story to some new friends last month, I realized that for years I’ve thought of this blender incident as just an amusing anecdote, a cute little detail, when actually it was an amazingly accurate preview of marriage. Because that feeling I had when Erick would ask me to make a smoothie using my just-cleaned blender — that feeling is one of the emotions I’ve felt most often throughout twelve years of marriage. Frustration. Vague annoyance. Martyrdom. Just when I get everything nice and tidy, you come in and make me mess it up again with your needs!

I’ve felt this way more than I’ve felt the soaring highs of early love, more than I’ve felt passion. And that’s not because I don’t love Erick, or because he’s an irritating person; on the contrary, I love him immensely, and he’s one of the least demanding people I’ve ever met.

I think that the “please make me a smoothie in your clean blender” feeling is all tangled up with what it means to have relationships with others. You don’t even have to be married to feel it: I feel it all the time towards my children. If I’m honest, I feel it every time the phone rings.

Because sometimes, at the end of a long day, you just want to sit on the couch eating popcorn and reading a good book, but your spouse wants to talk about their feelings or your day or the budget.

Sometimes, just when you think all the kids are napping (finally!) and you’re sitting down to write your next blog post, the bedroom door slams open and they come pounding down the hall screaming, “Mommy! Mommy!”

Sometimes, when you’re trying to cook dinner or get everyone out the door or call the dog in, the phone rings and it’s a friend who needs help or wants to chat.

Having your neat and tidy life messed up is a side effect of connection. And love is when you grit your teeth and usher in the mess.

When you lay down your book and talk to your spouse.

When you get up from your computer and tuck the kids back into bed.

When you pick up the phone.

When you toss bananas, yogurt, and ice into the blender that you just scrubbed.

If I seem to suggest that love usually entails frustration and teeth-gritting acts of service — well, I think that’s true. It’s what a dozen years of marriage, half of those years with children, have taught me.

But I wouldn’t give back a single one of those years. In fact, I’m probably more romantic than when I put on that white dress twelve years ago. I believe wholeheartedly in love. I believe that nothing has more power to change other people and ourselves for the better than dirtying our clean blenders because somebody else wants a smoothie.

Keeping the blender unsullied, keeping our lives neat and tidy, may sound like a good thing. It may even feel like a good thing, for a time. But after a while, you’re just a waitress sitting alone with a clean blender at closing time. And that sounds pretty sad to me.

My parents recently moved 15 minutes away from us (cue angelic chorus). Part of this process involved packing up the house in Virginia where they’d lived for 27 years.

In no way are my parents hoarders — they’re far too neat for that — but they’re not quick to throw things out. When something breaks in my house, for instance (and things break here every day), we usually toss it and think, Yay! Less stuff! My parents would fix it. This is because they’re frugal, but also because they have an emotional attachment to certain things. They remember who gave them the gravy boat, and exactly where and when they bought the bookcase. They save papers for historical and nostalgic purposes. They keep careful records of their granddaughters’ vital statistics at every check-up.

But their new house in Vermont is smaller than their former house in Virginia.

So, when it came time for my parents to load the truck, they offloaded several large boxes on me. The contents of these boxes included school papers, report cards and test scores, artwork, compositions, awards, and photos — stretching back as far as preschool.

I’m an only child, so you can just imagine.

And that’s how I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor several naptimes in a row, sorting through records of my past.

Most of this was dull (programs of all the science fairs in which I’d participated, academic award certificates), or embarrassingly awful. My seventh grade English teacher was either a saint or a masochist, because she had her students keep a running poetry journal throughout the year. Nobody should have to go back and read the poems they wrote in middle school. I bet even Shakespeare turned out maudlin, self-centered treacle when he was twelve. My own efforts were just as dreadful as you’d expect — but even worse were my personal journals, especially those I kept while I was reading the collected works of L.M. Montgomery (you can tell because I refer to my parents as “Mother” and “Father”).

But some of what I found in those boxes was fascinating — and surprising. And I think it applies to more than just myself.

1. My strengths have always been my strengths. It’s difficult for me to discuss what I’m good at, because — along with topics like money and icky feelings — I grew up believing that talking about one’s successes was rude. BUT, in those boxes was clear evidence that I’ve always loved writing. Not only that, but (middle school poetry aside), I’ve always been pretty good at writing. My teachers said so, year after year. I won awards (like First Place for Humor in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards). Re-reading my creative writing projects, many of them painstakingly illustrated (I wasn’t bad at art, either), I almost wept at the amount of time I’d invested when I could have been playing Donkey Kong. A career test, taken in my teens, revealed that my two top career fields would be the “Communication or Caring Professions.” I was a college writing tutor, and developed and taught a nonfiction writing course with a friend our senior year.

2. My weaknesses have always been my weaknesses. “Anxiety” is a word that comes up repeatedly: in personality assessments throughout school, in notes from my parents’ discussions with counselors, and even in my autobiographical writing. A psychologist whom I saw a couple of times in fourth grade even gave me a diagnosis: “Overanxious Disorder of Childhood with minor depressive features.” Holy Cow! Doesn’t that just about sum us all up?!? Also, I cared a little too much about what other people thought. I concluded a six-page autobiography from sixth grade with: “If you got bored during the last part of this, I don’t blame you.” My mother, in notes from a discussion with a counselor, wrote, “To help define what Faith would like to be. She has no image of that girl. Just what Mom & Dad want her to be.” Holy Cow!

3. I had absolutely no clue about either my strengths or my weaknesses. I’ve always considered myself to be relatively self-aware, yet all evidence points to the contrary. I had all the information, I just didn’t apply it.

Despite everything that should have encouraged me to focus on writing and the arts, I consistently said, year after year, that I wanted to be a lawyer. My father is a lawyer, and I suppose it’s common to begin with the desire to follow a parent’s career path. My career aspirations did change in high school, when I started doing well at science fairs; then I decided that I’d be a biologist, which is what I told prospective colleges. Not surprisingly, I dropped that idea after one year of college biology.

More seriously: that anxiety. Despite having been diagnosed as overanxious, despite writing my college admissions essay on how I’d overcome crippling anxiety in the past, I continued to struggle with crippling anxiety, perfectionism, people-pleasing, and overall lack of identity for the next decade. (And those things still rear their ugly heads when I get off-kilter to this day).

All of which leads me to this: I think we always are who we are. Certainly our experiences shape us in crucial ways, but we’re all born predisposed to a set of strengths and weaknesses that stick with us for life. This doesn’t mean that we can’t change; obviously the point is to dial up the strengths and dial back the weaknesses. But change requires self-awareness.

Which leads to one more thing: I think, somewhere between toddlerhood and adulthood, most of us tend to forget who we are. We suffer setbacks and traumas, we try to conform to who we think our parents, friends, or the culture want us to be, we read too much L.M. Montgomery and start adopting her voice. We ignore all the signs, and take a wide detour around our true selves.

It’s nice to believe, decades after those papers were filed away, that maybe I’m finally starting to zero in on who I am — which is who I was all along. It’s confirmation that, as a parent, a big part of my job is to help my daughters accurately identify their own strengths and weaknesses; to help them know who they are and be the Best Them they can be. So that they don’t find themselves sitting among the file boxes decades hence, wondering, Why didn’t I pay attention?

 

My husband and I have an ongoing joke this year; whenever we have one of those conversations that focuses on a problem — something sad, or stressful, or disturbing — Erick will end it with, “And also, we’re going to die!”

That’s what I get for confiding in my husband that this year I’ve become acutely aware of how fragile our bodies are, how at a certain point everything in the physical realm starts sliding downhill, how death seems to be breathing down our necks more than ever before.

He tells me I’m having what’s commonly known as a “mid-life crisis.” I can’t believe that I’m old enough to be having a mid-life crisis, but when I note my age relative to the average life expectancy, I admit that he’s probably right. (The average life expectancy for American females of all races in 2010 was 81.1. I’m 38 years old — almost halfway there).

If you’ve been following this blog over the past year, you had some warning that this was coming when I turned 38. The realization that I was entering middle age, the fact that I’d just given birth to what we expect will be our final child, and the humbling analysis from my (20-something) dental hygienist that the onset of my first cavities was probably due to “age,” threw me into a bit of a tailspin. Although I ended that 38th birthday post on a positive note, my tail has  continued spinning.

So, lucky you! You get a front-row seat to my mid-life crisis. Unfortunately, it seems that my mid-life crisis will not involve fun things like buying a sports car, getting a tattoo, taking up with the gardener (if only we had one!), or running away to Acapulco. No; for my own mid-life crisis, I will apparently sit right here in my Vermont kitchen and think the following thoughts:

–My body will never be any healthier than it is right at this very moment.

–We’re all dying. What have I done with my life so far? And what will I do with the time I have left?

That last question is a big  philosophical issue. It’s important, but, to be honest, I have less trouble with the philosophical struggles of middle age than with the physical. My religious faith helps immensely in this. Also, even if I never get a book deal or win an award in the future, I figure four kids is a pretty decent legacy.

In other words: I don’t fear death as much as I fear decades of chronic back pain.

Fortunately for me, I do not (yet) suffer from chronic back pain; unfortunately for him, my husband does. He’s always been prone to throwing out his back — usually on the eve of our next baby’s birth. But this year, due to a combination of age and a job that requires long hours at a computer, his back pain has become chronic. He takes ibuprofen, he sees a chiropractor, he’s tried acupuncture, he does back exercises and stretches every single night, we bought a Sleep Number Bed, and he sleeps cocooned in a complex arrangement of pillows. Sometimes the pain is better, sometimes it’s worse, but we’re coming around to accepting that it’s probably going to be around for the long haul.

My own aches and pains are more varied. It turns out that when you hit your late 30s after having given birth to four children in six years, that body you’ve taken for granted — ignored — for so long, suddenly makes its presence known. Hello! it says. Remember me? I’ve been working hard for you, and now I’m gonna make you FEEL it!

Too many people live with far more discomfort than I, for a much greater part of their lives. But for almost four decades, I’ve been blissfully unaware of my good health. Sure, there have been uncomfortable moments, but I’ve always assumed that if something hurts now, it probably won’t hurt later.  After a certain age, one can no longer make that assumption. If something hurts now, it may well hurt for the next four decades.

Assuming I have four decades left. Not a safe assumption when our parents’ friends are starting to die, and people our own age are diagnosed with serious illnesses at an increasing rate.

It’s all enough to make a person feel a little…down.

I found some solace, oddly enough, at a memorial service.

The man who had died was a member of our church. I didn’t know him well, but our church is small and he was someone who’d quietly touched everybody within arm’s reach during his 88 years. (He read my articles in the Addison Independent, and he often sent me thoughtful email responses). He made a quiet but deep impact upon his world despite struggling with severe depression through the years. It might be more accurate to say: He made his impact upon the world because he struggled with severe depression through the years. He was very open about his struggles, even with me in the brief time I knew him.

He’d chosen the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah as the closing music for his memorial service. Before it was played, the pastor told the story of how Handel came to write Messiah. When Handel found the libretto which inspired his famous oratorio, he was at one of the lowest points in his life. He’d recently had a stroke, which had paralyzed his right arm and made it impossible for him to perform or conduct music. He complained of blurred vision. He was out of favor with the royal court, and in debt due to a failed venture into the opera business. Despite these struggles — it might be more accurate to say because of these struggles — he went on to write a world-shaking piece of music.

I sat there thinking about my friend changing lives while fighting depression, and about Handel composing Messiah with a bum arm and blurred vision. And then I thought about the veritable galaxy of people who’ve made huge impacts while struggling with physical and mental pain: John F. Kennedy had severe back pain, Franklin D. Roosevelt was paralyzed by polio, Georgia O’Keeffe and Isaac Newton suffered nervous breakdowns, Beethoven was bipolar. The notable people who’ve struggled with depression are too numerous to list. More recent celebrities with chronic back pain include George Clooney, Bono, Bo Derek, and Elizabeth Taylor. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.

Is it necessary to suffer in order to make an impact? Probably not. But one could make a compelling argument that struggling with chronic physical or mental pain sharpens empathy, tenacity, and focus. My husband says that his chronic back pain has made him more acutely aware of — and grateful for — those times when he isn’t hurting.

In any case, reflecting upon the numerous people who’ve had full and meaningful lives that included acute discomfort made me realize that life is not over just because one’s physical condition has begun the downward slide. As I move into middle age and experience increasing physical discomfort, I can choose to fixate on and complain about my aging body — eventually becoming, in the words of C. S. Lewis, “a grumble.” Or I can take inspiration from those who’ve persevered despite — or because of — pain. I’ve been spoiled by three decades of comfort, but it well may be that the decades to come are richer — spiritually, mentally, emotionally, creatively — despite (or because of?) the presence of some physical pain.

And also, we’re going to die.