Last week, the Girl!Twin called home from college. I miss
having her around, and it was a good talk. I’d posted on Facebook about the day
her dad proposed to me, and how I hadn’t taken him completely seriously at
first because it was April Fool’s Day.
This is the Girl!Twin, headbutting a goat. As you do.
She asked, “How did you know he was the one?”
[I should add a caveat here: I don’t believe in The One. I
do think some people are more suited than others, but a mature, basically
decent human being can build a life with any number of potential spouses. We
all have so many choices in life, so many varied experiences. And the idea that
you have to somehow stumble upon the one right person, at the right moment?
That seems like way too much of a crap shoot for my tastes.]
One of these fabulous beasts is the Spousal Unit.
Looking back, I can’t say there was one defining moment when
I looked at the Spousal Unit and thought, Yep,
that’s the one. More like a series of moments, when I saw the pattern of
our lives intertwining, when I recognized in him someone I’d enjoy being with
for the long haul.
But there was one conversation early on, which caught me off
guard in the best way possible. It was late 1990, early 1991, just before the
first Gulf War started. The future Spousal Unit were driving around—probably headed
out for shakes at that great little place off campus in Provo that doesn’t seem
to exist anymore—and discussing current events. I don’t recall what we
disagreed about. It wasn’t an argument; I just expressed my opinion, and then
commented that he probably wouldn’t want to date me again.
I do remember, vividly,
what he said next: “I think it’s sexy that you’re smart. I’m tired of dating
girls who couldn’t find Afghanistan on a map.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to
hear that from my significant other. I’d dated a few guys before that, some of
them nicer than others, but not one of them—not a single one—ever made me feel
that the quality of my mind was important. I’d long since decided not to play
stupid for anyone, because that’s a horrible way to live, but I’d gotten used
to boys politely ignoring that part of me. Having any measurable degree of
intelligence was at best the sort of defect that someone could overlook if I
had enough acceptable traits. I’d never imagined that holding my own in a
discussion of geopolitics might be a selling point.
That’s the story I told my daughter. And I said, “The right
person for you is the one who loves your whole
self.” Too often in life, we accept less-than because that’s how we see
ourselves. Even the good parts of us can make some people feel uncomfortable.
But that’s not the kind of person you want to wake up next to for the rest of
your life. The right one fuels your good ambitions, because they already see the
culmination of them in you.
It’s good to be loved for being a whole person.
We were both fairly intelligent people until we had children, and we've been wrong and stupid pretty much every day since then. True story.
[Side note: If you ever meet the Spousal Unit, and happen to
ask him who’s the brains of the family, he’ll probably say it’s me. Apparently
he’s known for bragging me up behind my back. But you should not believe him, because he’s an
absolute whiz at a number of things that stump me, and he’s one of those people
who’s always willing to learn something new. Which, to my mind, is one of the
best measures of intelligence.]
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