Due to school obligations, I haven't written for fun in a long time. To remedy that, I've decided to challenge myself to write at least one story each month for the next year. Think of it as a New Year’s Resolution made six months late—isn't it ironic, don't you think. Sorry, my inner 90’s kid couldn't resist. If you don’t get the reference, just know I'm shaking my head and judging you with all the feral angst the memes about Gen X warn you about.
So, let’s get to the purpose of this challenge. First, I want to write something creative again. Second, I want to capture our stories in hopes that others might laugh, cry, or find comfort in the chaos that is Patrick and me. Maybe we should come with a warning label: “A full life is stuffed in here; there may be sharp edges, blanket forts of wonder, swamps of sadness, or just Tuesdays and tacos.”
For the next 12 months, let’s buckle up in the Family Truckster and embark on a journey together.
All good stories start at the beginning, so let me warn you, I never said this was a “good story,” but it is our story, and I will start at the beginning-ish.
Have you ever seen someone and known they were going to be in your life forever?
At the prime age of 13, I had this happen to me. I was sitting in Algebra class, alphabetically slotted behind JH once again, trying not to laugh at our teacher’s mid-week Garfield tie and purple shirt. This was an every Wednesday thing, most of us had gotten good at not shaking our heads; at least we always knew what day of the week it was. I wonder if he still has that Garfield tie.
Let’s take a moment to remember this was “old school” Middle School where the math problems were laid out on an overhead projector and worked through with a marker, making each mistake unmistakable when it was your turn to work the problem in front of the class. Our teacher, like many Algebra teachers of the time, had some difficulty balancing the clear plastic and the cover sheet as to not give us the answers. You know, that blank piece of paper that covered the easy path forward; the one you hoped would get caught on the projector fan and blow off long enough for you to gather a clue as to what was just discussed for the last 30 minutes. Deep breaths—if you know, you know, right?
Let me quickly get back on track. At no point did I think my Algebra teacher would be in my life forever. I was just trying to get through from 7 am to 7:55 am without hiding under my desk. This is not a story about Algebra. This is a story about the person who walked into that Algebra class—late. In walked this shaggy-haired, leather (or suede) vest-wearing kid. He looked like he knew what was going on in a time when I’m not sure any of us knew what was going on. And in that moment of him handing over his schedule and our Algebra teacher making a joke that his last name lined up perfectly with the empty seat in the back of the last row, I lost a piece of my soul, or my being, or my general humanity.
Now, you have to understand, I didn’t fall in love at first sight. I didn’t see hearts. I didn’t start writing our names in bubble letters on my notebooks. Instead, something else happened that would take decades to figure out. When a piece of your soul/being/humanity leaves and joins another, it feels... WEIRD. Really fucking weird, especially at 13. The best I can compare it to is that you lost your keys, but you don’t even know what keys are, why you have them, or how they got lost in the first place. But not in a bad way. UGH... right!?!? Four decades later and it still makes no sense, but it happened: a piece of my soul/being/humanity just pinged off, rolled two aisles over and three seats back, and found a new home attached to a guy in a suede vest. Yep, the universe is a strange and wonderful place.
Turns out, that guy in the suede vest was also my sort of neighbor. He lived in a house at the corner of our neighborhood about seven houses down from me. It's strange to think that I don’t really know how many houses were between us, even though in the coming months we would walk it thousands of times. His house happened to be across the street from my bus stop too. I guess at this point it was “our” bus stop. Now, to make things even weirder, and this probably has more to do with age, I don’t remember us ever really talking in the first few days or weeks or maybe months—teenage time is a strange place.
What I do remember is that others started to see that he had stolen a part of my humanity. They must have known because they started to push us together. Glances and notes grew into walks around the neighborhood (man, I wish I had a Garmin back then; I could have clocked some serious steps), which grew into movie dates. Again, I don’t recall the “girlfriend/boyfriend” moment, but I am sure it was there. Maybe I kept going back thinking my humanity would gather all the knowledge needed from him and jump back over to me better for the small adventure. Such did not happen. It was like my humanity was a trinket in his pocket, and I only got to experience it when we were near each other.
Right now, you might be thinking... “and they lived happily ever after.” Ummm... NO. LOL. Well, not right away and certainly not at 13. Much of that is for another story. What I really have been leading up to is telling you about “the meet, not so cute.” At this point, he holds, unbeknownst to him, a trinket of my humanity in his lint-filled pockets (because he’s a boy and boys have lint-filled pockets), and we have fallen into a “dating” status.
After a movie date, where his grandfather (whom I would adore from the moment I met him—I know, a whole family of humanity trinket thieves) had dropped us off at my house, Patrick walked me up the drive and walkway to my front door. (You can skip this cringe-worthy embarrassment if you have heard the story before; just skip a few lines down.) There, as he held my hand, he pulled me to him, and for the first time, we kissed. It was light and small and shy and... “not a kiss.” Yep, he told me our first kiss was “not a kiss.” As any woman with self-respect would do, I quickly turned on my heel, opened my front door, and slammed it in his face without another word.
Patrick’s version of this story is that his suave, suede vest-wearing self was about to say, “That’s not a kiss; this is,” and then proceed to kiss me deeply and with tongue. I am still not sure that would have been any better to my 13-year-old self, but the context certainly changes things a bit.
At this point, the meet cute is no longer cute, and damn him for still holding a bit of my humanity, probably getting lint and poor manners all over it! OK, 13-year-old self is going back in her room to blare some grunge music. But he really did still have that trinket, my trinket. As many times as I have told this story, I don’t know what happened next. Maybe Patrick will remember and put some words to this section of the story, but for me, the emotions are all I see when I look back at those memories. I don’t have images of the order of things. What I do know is that he still had that piece of me.
It has always been that way. No matter the doors slamming or the incorrect words being said, he holds that trinket of my humanity. I can feel it when I am near him. It is weird sometimes because people say that someone else makes them whole, and maybe for some that’s true and an amazing feeling, but for me, I am whole being around him because he has this piece of who I am stuck to him. If I am being honest, there have been moments I wish I could steal back my humanity trinket from him. Steal it and lock it away so it doesn't roll to him again. When I think about doing just that, I start to realize that it is no longer my trinket; it belongs to him. It always belonged to him. I just carried it for 13 years.
As I have aged, I have realized these trinkets of humanity that we all have get given to people in our lives. Some trinkets are plain and others ornate. Some are larger than others. Some are small but made of more precious materials. You might be thinking that the humanity trinket Patrick holds in his now less lint-filled pocket is made of the most precious materials and is the largest trinket I have, and has the most details. You would be wrong. I have had years to think about this trinket. It isn’t a glorious item. It is small and worn down in spots from years of being in a pocket. Instead of being made of something precious or detailed with precision, it holds a promise. A promise that while this trinket is away from me, it is safe and well-kept, and that if ever a time comes for the trinket to be returned, it will be given back with all the signs of a trinket once well-loved.
I hope every day that my humanity trinket that Patrick holds remains in his pocket, safe from the world and worn by love.
Well, that’s that. Maybe not a story. Maybe just a brain gone haywire. Maybe just a girl remembering when she lost a trinket all those years ago. Maybe just me trying to remember how it all started as we approach the future. But that's the first glimpse you get-- well not the first but the first in this series.
By the way, to my love, please don’t lose my humanity trinket like you do your phone. I love you, and Happy 21st Anniversary of Marriage and 30 years of a life spent connected.
