Reality Chick

More than thirty years ago, a group of us high school friends had one of our girls’ nights out at the movies: The Deep.  The friend driving – I’ll call her Frieda – yanked on the steering wheel going around a corner — this was an old car without power steering bought with her own minimum wage earnings, in the days before parents leased their teenagers new, safe cars. Freida sighed, and said:  “O.K., the man I marry has to look like Nick Nolte, be Protestant, be good at sports, go to an Ivy League school, become a lawyer or a businessman …”  As she continued to enumerate a long, long list of husbandly prerequisites, the chorus of girls in the car squealed, “Frieda, come on!”

Only one of us had a real boyfriend then, but we all knew Frieda was setting the bar too high, not only out of her league, but out of reality. Was there a boy in our high school with an I.Q. above 77 who could compare to Nick Nolte? And if I remember rightly, no one from our class even got into an Ivy.

Needless to say, Freida didn’t marry. Or hasn’t yet. I did, though in high school I swore I never would. I’d grown up with Mary and Rhoda, saw my future self on that small screen.  It was newly O.K. to stay single, and I’d always known I didn’t need a man to be complete. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. Because marrying wasn’t on my To  Do List, I didn’t have a List of Requirements for my prospective husband. For many years – until the age of 20 – I was a Failure to Commit Female, and had little doubt I’d stay that way for the rest of my life.

My older sister had a steady boyfriend since she was three, so perhaps initially, my solitariness was a form of rebellion. Or perhaps I didn’t think I’d find someone who could live up to Dear Old Dad. Nah. My Dad was way too much to live up to.  A self-made professional, he was tall, dark and handsome (a neighborhood matron gushed, “The best looking live man I’ve ever seen!”)  Outstanding student, athletic, the strong silent type (too silent, according to my Mom) a tireless worker and good provider, he could fix, build, and make things grow, draw and project his interior design visions artfully onto our living space. He went to an Italian tailor and always carried a thick roll of bills.  Musical and always up on the trends, he took us kids to see The Eagles in the late sixties, when they were just Linda Ronstadt’s backup band. So much for my Dad, may he rest in peace. 

I met Peter my last semester of college, which I graduated a year late, having spent some extra time ticking things off my To Do List (living in Europe for a bit).  He was on the extended plan as well.  Peter is of average height, pink-skinned with red hair, of a different religion than me, “ruggedly” handsome, well-built, not the least bit silent — in fact, I had trouble getting a word in edgewise.  He made excessive references to his own father, whose American Express card he carried, whose old yellow Volvo he drove. He wore hippie clothes then and is now prone to dressing in a style usually only found on gay dandies, and is possessed of similarly fine interior decorating skills.

In the interest of avoiding extra repair bills and trips to the emergency room, I try not to let him fix anything around the house at all. He is an excellent cook (I’d probably still be nice and thin if I didn’t live with him).  He didn’t learn to mow a lawn till he was 45. I rely on him to keep me up on musical trends. (I’d still be listening to the Clash)  I never expected – can it really be 27 years ago we met? – to stay with him, or indeed anyone so long.

Here is a link to the excerpt of his memoir in progress, My Family Business, which appears in Smith Magazine.  Did I tell you he was funny? He is, very. Sometimes intentionally.