JG and I were both fighting colds. He was in the coughing stage, and I was in the sneezing, congestion phase. We had been cooped up together for days because of the snow. We didn’t exchange presents because mine was delayed in the mail. We didn’t have plans to go out because of crowds. We were too congested to see a movie. We couldn’t even sit together on the couch for fear of breathing on each other, so we huddled under blankets on opposite ends. We warmed up leftovers for dinner. On paper, our Valentine’s Day left much to be desired.
However.
JG persuaded me to leave the house on Saturday to wander around a nearby gourmet food store. We used a gift card from a student for a free lunch at Friday’s, and then we stopped by Longwood Gardens to see the snowy grounds and catch the annual orchid festival. Once home and thoroughly exhausted, we watched the afternoon Olympic coverage, occasionally dozing off. JG made an enormous batch of penne vodka with portobello mushrooms as I requested. For dessert, he put together a big chipwich using the giant chocolate chip cookies I baked that afternoon. I made a root beer float for me, and we hollered for Apolo Anton Ohno.
That’s not too bad for two people as sick, restless, and dosed up on cold medicine as we were. Ah, romance.
JG and I may go to bed at the same time, but we do not fall asleep at the same time. He’s out immediately after kissing me good night, and then I hunker down to read until the book drops from my hands. Last night, I stayed up far too late. At the end of each section, I’d check my wakefulness, only to determine that, yes, I was still alert enough to keep reading. At one point, I glanced to my right JG. He was sleeping beatifically, oblivious to my nocturnal observations. The LED in my book light gleamed eerily white, throwing everything in its glow into a strange, film noir color scheme. I watched JG breathe, up and down, and his face, hair, and sheets were a composition in black and gray. I considered him briefly. Everyone looks friendly and peaceful when asleep, I decided. It was a pleasant way to imagine someone.
And then JG stirred and blinked, and the light reflected in his eyes. “I love you,” he said groggily, and he leaned over to kiss me before turning over onto his other side, away from the glare.
“I love you, too,” I said, a little spellbound.
Yesterday, I had an anxiety-ridden monologue on repeat in my brain:
I really wish I had some freelance work. Why isn’t anyone getting back to me? Is it still too early in the year to solicit work? How often can I follow up before I cross the line into Annoyingville? I can’t believe it’s already mid-January, which means I’m already one-twelfth of the way until June. Was that an overly aggressive timeline? I didn’t think so; freelance editors make plenty of money in order for me to reach my goal in six months, but not me, apparently. If I don’t get work, I won’t be able to take the certification exam or finish my editing certificate or get to network during the conference. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m not cut out to do my own business development. But I’m going to have to do this if I want to freelance full-time. I’m already a failure!
In need of reassurance, I plopped on the couch next to JG and said, “I’m starting to get nervous about having any freelance work.”
“Why?”
“I need to pay for the trip to Milwaukee so I can take the editing exam and finish my certificate.”
“But you don’t have to go to Milwaukee, right?”
Something in me flared up. “No,” I snapped. “I don’t have to go.”
“Right,” JG continued, “so it’s not going toward the mortgage or something.”
Yes, that was true. Also, annoying. I knew he was trying to help by showing me that it wasn’t a big deal, that my lack of hypothetical earnings weren’t putting us in debt or forcing us onto the street, but still.
I tried again. “It’s symbolic,” I said. “It’s how I know I’ll be able to do this in the long term.”
“I think you’re good enough to get paid to edit, dear.”
Somehow, that rubbed me the wrong way, too. I know I’m good enough to get paid! Where are the other people who think this way, too? Like people who are not already contributing to our household’s net income? Tell me that!
In response, I spat, “Thanks.”
After a pause, JG said, “I’m sorry I don’t know what to say.”
A punch to the gut! I felt even worse than before, when at least I hadn’t realized that I didn’t have to go to Milwaukee, I hadn’t found anyone who thought I was skilled and could pay me, and I was being high-maintenance and demanding. What a good night for revelations!
Stymied, I stalked off to the kitchen to make dinner, and as I chopped garlic and separated broccoli florets, I remembered reading somewhere about how women can come into situations with a certain script in mind. There’s an idea of how the scene should play out, even if it’s totally irrational, so when disappointment strikes, the scriptwriter gets annoyed, but no one knows why, least of all herself.
What did I have in my script? In the end, I wanted to feel better, but how was JG supposed to know how to get me there? Off the top of my head (still chopping), I imagined a few drafts:
Situation A: Annoying optimism
RA: I’m starting to get nervous about having any freelance work.
JG: Don’t worry, everything will be fine!
RA: Oh, shut up.
Situation B: Stressful problem-solving
RA: I’m starting to get nervous about having any freelance work.
JG: Have you tried everything you can? Did you ask your contacts for connections? Is your resume updated? Is there anyone else you can ask for advice?
RA: Leave me alone!
Situation C: Infuriating indifference
RA: I’m starting to get nervous about having any freelance work.
JG: Mm hmm.
RA: Why don’t you care?!
Hm. So far, all of these were awful in comparison to reality, and even if I could pick out the ideal response from JG, what was the point? If he didn’t say it, I’d be disappointed anyway. I was setting him up for failure by trying to engineer the conversation.
Bluh. I mentally added “manipulative harpie” to that list of unpleasant realizations and resolved to cut to the chase and ask for a hug the next time.
Last Friday, JG’s school district called a 2-hour delay because of ice on the roads. As a result, he met with one section of freshman geometry for much longer than the other, so to keep the two classes on the same pace, he took the only logical course of action: he killed time. As he told the story that night:
The kids know how to get me talking, so they ask me about food and cooking. We get on the topic of how I like to cook, but I don’t like to bake. One the kids says, “Mr. JG, you should get a bread machine!”
So I ask, “Why is that?”
“Well, you just throw the stuff in there and then you get bread! You don’t have to do anything!”
“See, kids, when I want bread, I ask my wife, ‘Honey, will you make bread this weekend?’ And then I get bread, and I don’t have to do anything!”
Then the kids started laughing, and the guys were like, “You just say, ‘Woman! Make me bread!”
I say, “Hold on, kids. [JG motions for a time-out.] Pay attention to how I ask her. I say, ‘Honey, will you make bread this weekend?’ Guys, your job is never to start any request of any woman with, ‘Woman!’”
The class starts laughing, and then I say, “And girls, your job is to make sure you don’t do something if a guy asks you to do it and says, ‘Woman!’
“Here are a few tips for marriage, guys. All you have to do is learn how to cook a few dishes well, so you can make them any time, and you have to be willing to dance. That’s it!”
All of the girls agree with me; they’re like, “He’s right!” But the guys are complaining that they don’t like to dance, so I say, “Have you guys ever seen Hitch?” [JG starts step-touching.]
I’m like, “This is home. Don’t need no pizza — they got food there!”
The kids are dying laughing at me dancing, and the girls are still nodding! It was hilarious.
At the conclusion of the tale, I sigh. “Ah, life lessons from Mr. JG. You heard it first, kids.”
“Maybe sometime in the future, one of those guys will impress his girlfriend by dancing with her at a wedding, you know?”
“Hey, don’t let anyone say your instruction doesn’t go beyond the classroom.”
