I can hardly believe I'm going to start off this post in such a way, but do you watch The Real Housewives of New York City? If you don't—and, really, good for you—let me tell you a little bit about a ridiculously pretentious and pompous couple on the show—a couple who has very little reason to be pretentious and pompous because they don't even have proper floors in their house. The wife's name is Alex. The husband's is Simon. Their two little boys are so awkwardly named I can't bear to Google the correct spellings. Aside from the pretension and pompousness, they are also inseparable. And I guess it comes across as somewhat romantic—he tells her the sunset isn't as gorgeous as she is, she constantly tells the camera she is deeply in love and they pity every other couple they know for not being as blissful as they are and, yet, I feel sorry for the two of them. At one point, Alex is invited to a ladies' dinner and she pauses and asks, "Well, let me ask you something. Can I bring Simon?" There's so little they can do without each other.
Last weekend I was in Austin for Natalie's bachelorette party, and although I called Mike when we got to Austin and then again when we stumbled into our hotel room after our night of drinking and shimmying, it was more of a "Hi! Didn't get snatched and I also didn't spend our entire budget on body shots! Love you! Night!" conversation than an "I miss you so much. I am counting down the minutes until I can see your face again." one. And I truly don't think it means I don't love him or don't adore him or don't find myself just as lucky as Alex finds herself. (Although, I don't know if any woman who wears an animal print dress to the opera should be considered anything other than certifiable, lucky included.)
Here's the thing, when Mike and I first started dating, we spent every waking minute together. I stopped spending time with friends, I stopped showing up for work regularly, I started studying less and less. Here's why: I was afraid I would lose the relationship if I didn't hold tightly onto it.
About seven months into our relationship, as Mike and I were driving to lunch before he went to work for the day, I asked him what we were doing that night, and he said, "Why don't you go see Cherie tonight." To which I said, "So I won't see you at all tonight?" He responded, "Since we're spending forever together, it really is okay if we don't spend tonight together." And, OH BOY, it was like a giant, flashing, neon light went off. After that, everything changed in our relationship. I trusted that if I went to dinner with friends, he'd still be there when I got home. I trusted that when I surrounded myself with good friends and family—not only a good partner—I would become a more complete and peaceful person. I now believe that I serve Mike better when I allow both of us to breathe on our own.
I am not Mike's other half. He is not mine. Mike and I are two individuals, two complete people in one committed relationship. We did not become "one" when we got married. I don't think he's my soul mate, and I don't believe fate or destiny brought us together.
I have never worked as hard at anything in my life than this relationship. And not because being with Mike is harder than anything I've ever done. (Although, wow, have you ever been with someone who plans his week around the Deadliest Catch premiere? Not a piece of cake.) But I work so hard because I have never been more proud of something than of this relationship, and I want it to reflect that effort. And if I believed that our path had already been predestined, that we came together not of our own choices but because of some grander plan, I might get the inclination that I don't have to work so hard. And that's not the kind of relationship I want; it's not the kind of relationship I most believe in.
When you walk into a marriage, the odds simply are what they are. Every couple who has gone their separate ways loved each other once—well, most of them—but the odds neither comfort nor scare. It's a coin flip. And so I work at it, and I choose him every day. Because I won't leave this relationship to chance, to become a statistic. I insist on being a part of this relationship in order to determine how it will grow.
Eleven months ago, on our wedding day, as I finished saying the vows to Mike that I had written myself, I said something that I continue to say to myself at least once a day—sometimes if the days are particularly hard, more than once. I say, "You are the best decision I have ever made."
He is a decision I continue to make, a choice I continue to choose. And Mike and I are the only two people who can—and do—take credit for the relationship we have.
Well, Mike, me and a hefty supply of alcohol.
Happy eleven months, Michael.