Getting All I Deserve

Getting All I Deserve

All my adult life I dreamed of finding a man who would share my interests; someone who didn’t mind grocery shopping, or perusing malls, and liked to cook. I wanted a man who, when the laundry basket started overflowing, understood that meant it was time to throw a load into the washing machine, and then did it; a man who, when he noticed the toilet paper spindle was empty, didn’t cock his head quizzically and wait for it to magically reload, but replaced the roll himself. In my last marriage I posted step-by-step instructions on how to remove and replace the toilet paper spindle. I also hung a basket ball hoop over the laundry hamper so family members would aim for the hamper rather than in its general direction. Neither attempt worked.

I yearned for a man with opinions about what china pattern he liked, what color to paint the walls and what style to decorate the house. I have never understood how a man can repeatedly eat meals from dishes that aren’t his pattern preference, comfortably settle into a chair he had no interest in selecting, in a house that’s been decorated to someone else’s taste.

As the years passed I became convinced that no such man existed. But, to my amazement, in the seventh decade of my life, I found such a man. He loves to cook and is better at it than I am. He accompanies me to malls, while holding my hand and pointing out clothing styles and colors he believes best suit me, and he never objects to waiting while I ponder over my selections. He does laundry, vacuums, and is a sensational tailor. He even designed and sewed maternity dresses and gowns for his former wife during their 47 year marriage.

He suggests color schemes, furniture styles and decorating ideas for the house. We shop for silverware, linens and groceries and he has thoughts and ideas about all aspects of our life together. He’s everything I ever dreamed of and now I ask, What was I thinking?

I can’t believe I didn’t appreciate how liberating it was to buy whatever I wanted, and never have anyone offer suggestions or second guess me. If I chose to live with chartreuse walls and orange shag carpeting, no one cared. If I tossed all of my dishes into the trash compacter and devoted my life to paper plates, no one objected.

I knew he was different from our first communication on an online dating site. When he admitted that he was looking for a wife I said, “Sure you are; I’d like one too – to wash my clothes, prepare my meals, and clean my house.”

He refuted my assumptions saying he was accustomed to doing all those things himself.

My heart stirred ever so slightly.

He had also said that since his wife’s passing he only dated young women with tight derrieres, firm boobs and airbrushed skin. It was then that I assured him we would never meet.

But, he wore me down, and we did meet, and despite my puckered skin, timeworn boobs and great-for-child-bearing hips, he wanted me because he liked my mind.

When I was young and knew I had an outstanding body, it would have been flattering to find a man who loved my mind. But today, when my mind has the advantage of age but my body doesn’t, it might have been nice to find someone who wanted me for my body.

“I could have had a number of young, firm, beautiful woman,” was the way he put it, “but I chose you.” And he thought those words would make me swoon?

So, after 23 years of marriage, and an equal number of wonderful, jubilant divorced years, I not only agreed to marry again, something I swore I’d never do, I looked forward to it.

Years ago I gathered all my friends together and told them that if I ever so much as eluded to words like Commitment, Marriage, or Happily Ever After, they had my permission to line up and, one by one, smack me silly.

It’s been several years since the Clobbering Ceremony and my face still stings.