Another Pizza Anniversary

My husband and I met on a Sierra Singles hike in Marin County 41 years ago today, after which we went with the entire group to Red Boy Pizza in Fairfax. Unlike the Ethiopian restaurant where Jonathan proposed and the Bed and Breakfast where we married, Red Boy is still going strong, just like us. It’s where we celebrate every June 2, always ordering a pepperoni and green pepper pizza and inflicting our history on the bored teenager taking our order.

We are not as fresh and ebullient as we were when we met, with the wear and tear long-term marriages acquire, the sometimes alarming aspects of being 70, and the outside world pressing hard on us all right now. So it was a special gift to listen today to Ezra Klein’s conversation with the writer Kathryn Schulz about how to hold radically different feelings at once.

The podcast springs from Schulz’s memoir, Lost & Found: Reflections on Grief, Gratitude, and Happiness, about the intense grief of losing her father while simultaneously falling in love with her partner. They’ve been together 10 years now, and have two kids–long past the bliss of love’s initial rush, well into the middle. The advanced middle is where Jonathan and I now live, and Shulz really captures the deeper appreciation and commitment that comes from living within those intertwining contradictions of life and love:

Most of what we read and hear and watch of love stories is either the beginning or the ending. . . . When you are happily together with someone, what actually matters to you is the middle. And actually what you want to have go on and on and on is the middle. But nobody writes about the middle. There’s very little about the day-to-day happiness and texture of a happy life, which isn’t just happy. . . . A lot of this book is about the endless overlap and contradiction and friction in different emotions. And a lot of happiness is infused with annoyance or frustration or bad days or whatever it may be, but still somehow, fundamentally feels for us that the deep and essential name you would give to it is happiness. 

Happiness is a state of profound appreciation for what you have in that exact moment.

At this exact moment, I have had 41 years with a man who sometimes drives me crazy and whom I deeply love and appreciate. I’m sure he feels the same way. And tonight we’ll both savor those radically different feelings along with our pepperoni and green pepper pizza.

Love, Actually

Green for sustainability

Green for sustainability, a little scuffed for reality

“Our lives are so boring,” my husband remarked recently. “Pretty much the same thing from one day to the next.”

“That’s why the girls have a horror of becoming us,” I replied. “And also why it’s so hard to write the holiday newsletter year after year.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jonathan continued. “I’m really happy with our lives.”

Me too.

Perhaps it’s just self-delusion, but I’ve long thought that the secret to a happy marriage is a high tolerance for boredom. Jonathan thinks the secret is watching DVDs of long-running TV shows, like Friday Night Lights. Our Friday nights consist of pizza and Netflix. Our latest addiction is The Good Wife, which has the advantage of 6 seasons with 23 episodes each. Not to mention the salutary impact of the title’s subliminal message!

Still, even Jonathan and I have our limits. So the other night we decided to shake things up a little by going to see a live one-man show at our local community theater. As soon as the lights went down and the performer appeared onstage, Jonathan’s eyes closed. I would have elbowed him awake, except my eyes closed soon after. We made our escape at intermission, and settled in for the next episode of The Good Wife.

Perhaps the natural arc of long-term love moves from rutting to rut. Couples dubbed by “Modern Love” editor Daniel Jones as “appreciatively resigned” fare best with this trajectory.

We can come to appreciate some pretty strange things.

The other night, for example, I was laboring over a clogged toilet that looked as if it might defeat even Roto-Rooter. Jonathan came in and asked if he could help. I remembered a midnight years ago, same toilet, same linoleum floor, my exhausted husband cleaning up from the latest round of our daughters’ stomach flu. Back then I was inexplicably turned on watching him mop, flush, and mop again. “Is this what it’s come to?” I’d thought in despair. I couldn’t imagine anything more depressing than reviving muted passion over an overflowing toilet. How low we had sunk from the days of mutual fascination! But a wise friend saw it differently: “There’s nothing more intimate than seeing someone take such tender care of those you love.”

Those kids are gone now, leaving none of their messes to clean up. Intimacy is the glue that keeps us together. Not the intimacy of candlelit dinners and sexy lingerie, but enduring intimacy, which requires a continual process of mutual forgiveness for not remaining as exciting as when we first fell in love. We stay together precisely because we know each other’s messes, and mop up after them patiently and lovingly time and time again. Not because we have to, but because we want to take care of those we love.

And because we always look forward to the next episode.