(S)park!

Mike and I have been together for 12 years and married for six. That's 48 seasons. While I understand that's a drop in the bucket for some, it's a wonderfully long time in my book. I love our relationship.

     Of course, like all relationships, ours needs to be nurtured. Relationships are living breathing entities like the people in them. They change over time, because we change over time, so it's important to always be paying attention. In order to do just that, I've been doing some research.

     First stop, writer, activist, and internationally syndicated relationship columnist, Dan Savage!

     Dan Savage was the first to use the abbreviation GGG - Good, Giving, and Game - to explain what partners should strive to be in order to nurture and sustain a successful, healthy relationship.  Savage promotes being up for anything... within reason. Hey, there are as many proclivities out there as there are people. It's important to be open and willing to explore.

     And genuine science backs Savage up. Dr. Amy Muise's Psychology Today article, "Are You GGG?" acknowledges that "people who are more motivated to respond to their partner’s needs report higher relationship satisfaction and feel more intrinsic joy after making a sacrifice for their partner.” 

     Now, I'm not trying to brag when I say - I've been pretty darn GGG over the years. Years of damaged boyfriends and comedy improvisation taught me to always say, "Yes, and...," and I think there have been more winners than losers in my relationships when all was said and done. I like to think that my husband benefits from my high GGG level. I try to keep the magic alive, as magazines and talk shows like to say. 

     But.

     Mike has been asking for one thing over the years that, well, I've never felt completely comfortable with. Full disclosure - I've done it before. I started doing it early (14?), and I'm pretty good at it (even if I grow impatient and tire of it quickly). Ultimately, I don't enjoy it. To be fair to Mike, it's not a deviance; more of a desire... a desire that's morphed into a necessity. The requests that started as sweet and subtle suggestions became more frequent and pressing entreaties.

     My husband wants me to park the car.

     No, that's not a euphemism.  

     He wants me to actually PARK THE CAR.

All of you outside major urban areas are yelling a collective WHAT?! Yes, I hear you. But city dwellers, back me up here. 

     Like most sane New Yorkers, I do not like driving - let alone parking - in New York City. I don't need to drive here. It's easy to get anywhere I have to go by foot, by bicycle, or by MTA. When Mike and I first got together, he owned a car, but I didn't. Several years and vehicles later, we took over one of my parents' cars when they downsized and moved to Florida. While our car became a jointly-owned asset, the responsibility still remained solely Mike's.

During the school year, I had a strong defense. My devoted husband may have had an itch for something different, but he knew that NO was my answer. He didn't even bother to ask, and that was the end of it. Most often, Mike could be home early enough from work to beat the neighborhood parking rush. Sometimes he was able to work from home, so he could take part in the alternate side, double-parking ballet.  He was still the master of his domain.  

     Things changed, though, when he started a new job this year. He returns home in the evening, and late-night parking really blows. 

     So when summer rolled around and my schedule became less demanding and more flexible, Mike began to press a bit.

     He'd lean in close and purr in his best Barry White, “Hey, if you’re around at 12:45…” 
     I'd stiffen and pull away. “Mike, I'm really not comfortable with that.”  I'd remind him that he is a master at parking!  He’s got magic parking space radar and surgical precision. He can squeeze into a space with nothing but a sigh between bumpers. I am not as adept. Of course, he'd counter that I just don't do it as often, but that if I would just give it a try, I would see it really isn't a big deal. My protests would continue until finally he would drop it, but I knew he was undeterred... maybe even more resolute. He was gonna wear me down, all right!

     And wear me down he did.

     The first time, I was truly panicked. I envisioned myself driving around in an endless loop. "But did she ever return, No, she never returned, and her fate is still unlearned..." But heaven, and a parking space, opened right up. I felt a surge of confidence run up the steering column and into my very being as I turned the wheel to the curb. I DID IT!

     It has become easier. I've even begun to initiate. It doesn't matter how good I am at it, I get the job done, and Mike is just so incredibly grateful that I'm (finally) willing and able.  

     Something has shifted since I've started to help park the car. My husband has been more attentive.  Often my texts are met with radio silence, but look at how quickly and enthusiastically he responds when I text about the car:

  

It's incredible! I feel like finally surrendering to this request has brought us closer. We're back in a honeymoon phase. Seriously, look at the love here:

 

Lesson learned? 
The way to a man’s heart is through a parking space.

I'm doing it twice today. How's that for GGG in the NYC?

Stuck in the Middle

     While the universe christened my personal summer as The Summer of Humble, my husband Mike termed (somewhat optimistically) 2015 as our Summer of Social. We had high hopes for lots of cultural outings and merriment with friends. Unfortunately, Mike's work schedule's been significantly busier than planned, so more often than not, I've been making the trips to outdoor events, museums, and the theater without him. One July Friday, though, we managed to check out the evening music series at some beautiful outdoor gardens together.

     Sonnenberg Gardens (and Mansion State Historic Park) is a 50-acre estate in the Finger Lakes that houses a greenhouse complex, nine formal garden areas, including a Japanese Garden and a classic style rose garden, and an impressive 40-room Queen Anne-style mansion.  In the summer months, they string colored lights along their meandering pathways, and every Friday night through July and August, guests are able to walk the grounds and enjoy live music under the stars. 

     The band was set up on the wrap-around veranda of the mansion, and was cranking out classic Rolling Stones as we arrived. Most folks were sitting on folding chairs on the lawn directly in front, leaving a bit of room for dancing if the mood struck. Mike and I hung back a bit and set up farther out in the gardens where the crowd was thinner but the view was still good. We spread out our picnic blanket, got comfortable in our lawn chairs, and secretly sipped our Nalgene bottle full of homemade margaritas.

     The members of the group, like a significant swath of the crowd, looked to be in their late 50s/early 60s - Four guys sporting a healthy mix of gray, white and balding with varying eras of facial hair. They played just about everything spanning the last half century, and what they may have sometimes lacked in technique and pitch, they definitely made up for in enthusiasm. Mike and I figured that these friends had started playing together in high school and had just carried on for the next 40+ years. I appreciate that.  Nice work if you can get it!

     The band was having a great time, and so was the crowd. Most folks stayed seated to enjoy the entertainment, but there were a few pockets of daredevils that frequently jumped up and hit the dance floor. I got out of my chair, too, but stayed near our spot and enjoyed our two-person dance party. I felt like a cooler, younger kid with better moves, and I smirked a bit as I typed an update on my Facebook page:

     I leaned over and shared the sentiment with Mike, and he laughed and replied, "Steph, you are middle aged."

I had no idea.

Seriously.  When did that happen?

     What constitutes “middle-aged?” The U.S. Census Bureau doesn’t define the term “middle age” anywhere on their website, but their data refer to the group before “elderly” - ages 45-64 - as “the older-working population.” (I’m going to get that on a t-shirt: I’m not middle-aged, I’m the older-working population!) Merriam-Webster.com first defines middle age as “the period in a person's life from about age 40 to about age 60,” but then right below, it offers the FULL definition as “the period of life from about 45 to about 64.”  (The dictionary needs an editor, apparently.) Psychologist Erik Erikson defined middle adulthood as between 40-65.

     All of this is to say, none of this looks good for me.  

     I know this was not a sudden occurrence; it was, however, a sudden revelation. 

     It was a Twilight Zone episode:

     I awaken in a field, full of smiling, doughy white folks in long khaki shorts, solid cotton t-shirts, and comfortable shoes. They are gathered in lawn chairs, bobbing their heads to the music, when suddenly the band kicks into a warbly, non-ironic version of “Play That Funky Music.” They glow with nostalgia, and like one somewhat awkward blob, they rise from chairs and motion each other to the open area. They do their best to inhabit the music with their semi-balanced side to side rocking, enthusiastic shoulder thrusting, and clapping on the first and third beats of the music.  And just when I feel myself recoiling in horror, starting to yell, “Two and four! Two and four!” they notice me.  They reach out their arms to me, beckoning. Welcoming. I look down at myself and realize that I, too, am wearing a light pink cotton t-shirt, and khaki shorts.  It doesn’t matter that they’re green; a wild color can’t save me now. They recognize me.  

I’m one of them.  

I’M ONE OF THEM.

     You know, I actually thought I’d outgrown self-deception and denial, but here I am, full-on SMACKED again.

     And this is so awfully predictable for the way my life goes.  I start to look down my nose at someone else, and I spot myself in the crowd.  There is no getting around it.  I am everything and everyone I judge. I am.

     Needless to say, I got a lot of great Facebook responses that night, but the most thought-provoking came from my friend, Peggy: 

"Silly lady... you need to be dancing and not watching... When you're dancing you feel ageless ... Never mind what it looks like... There comes a time when you stop thinking about that and just do it!!!"

Peggy's absolutely right.  For most of my life, I've managed to march to the beat of my own drummer (while clapping on 2 and 4).  Seems I'm overdue to embrace middle age with that same spirit.