RECENTLY A FRIEND was telling me about a mutual acquaintance of ours who’s now a head football coach for a team I will not name to protect the privacy of this individual, who probably doesn’t want me to write about him in my little book, considering we haven’t seen each other in more than twenty years. My friend and her husband had flown out to visit him and his wife for a game, and she mentioned that this coach rode home with them afterward and turned on talk radio to listen to all the critics bashing his coaching abilities. His wife shared with them later that it is so hard to tolerate all these people talking about her husband and questioning his every move and decision.
As my friend told this story, I realized that I’d never been so grateful not to be married to a football coach. Like I told her, I get mad when one of Perry’s customers calls to complain that the grass he planted doesn’t look good. Some protective instinct rises up in me, and I’m all, “Do they even realize that it takes time for new grass to look good? What are they, horticulturists in their spare time?” Because I can handle it if you criticize me, but do NOT criticize someone I love.
A good marriage gives you a built-in cheerleader. You have a teammate. Someone who’s on your side and will defend you and protect you. Even when it means being overly optimistic about certain issues. “Those pants look great!” or “No one will even notice your haircut!” or “That joke was funny. They just don’t have a great sense of humor!”
Years ago Perry was asked to read a passage of Scripture in a friend’s wedding. This wasn’t anything new for him. As a former youth minister, he has actually performed entire wedding ceremonies many times, usually using ceremonial wording we’ve found on the Internet because we are very professional and have no idea what we’re doing.
The day before the wedding, Perry was working on a big project that required a lot of heavy lifting, and he threw out his back. (I don’t know why people use this expression. It’s very misleading. You don’t throw out anything so much as that your spine just quits working when you bend over.)
(It also makes me think of Me-Ma, who felt there was no greater conversation opener than to say, “Honey, I’m down in my back again.”)
Anyway, Perry’s back was no longer working properly. And we’ve learned over the years that it is usually at least a three-day process of lying in bed doing nothing but becoming one with a heating pad and Advil to get him back up and moving. So we called his friend Mike and explained what had happened and that it looked like we’d miss the rehearsal and the rehearsal dinner that evening but Perry would definitely be okay by Saturday evening in time for the wedding. I have no idea why we felt like we could make this guarantee when all past experience indicated otherwise.
Saturday morning dawned, and it was obvious that this back situation wasn’t getting any better. We began to contemplate our options, but Perry was adamant about not letting Mike down. He’d been our worship leader with Campus Life for years and was such a dear friend. So I decided to call a friend of ours who also struggles with a bad back to see if she had any recommendations. She told me about these muscle relaxers she takes whenever her back is bothering her and assured me they were miracle workers. Like Anne Sullivan to Helen Keller.
I drove to my friend’s house to pick up a couple of pills for Perry, and listen, I appreciate that you’re not supposed to share prescription medication and it’s against the law or whatever, but we were in desperate times. If we had to engage in some medicinal shenanigans, then so be it.
She mentioned that she usually took two at a time, so I used my pharmaceutical acumen to deduce that Perry should start by just taking one to see what happened. After about an hour, he was noticeably better and could actually sit upright for the first time in twenty-four hours. Which naturally meant that he should go ahead and take the second pill. Because I am almost like a doctor except without any training.
And here’s where engaging in medical shenanigans became problematic. The second pill allowed Perry to stand upright and take a shower; however, by the time he had dried off and begun to put on his suit, we realized his fine motor skills weren’t really operating at a functional level. As in, I had to get him dressed and figure out how to tie his tie, and shaving wasn’t going to happen. I quickly got myself dressed and helped him out to the car before he could pass out cold on the couch.
When we arrived at the church, I had to physically keep him upright as I reminded him to put one foot in front of the other. It was like a deleted scene out of Weekend at Bernie’s.
In hindsight, this probably would have been the time to just say, “You know what? This isn’t going to work out.” But that would have been entirely too logical, so we forged ahead and listened as the priest at this very formal Episcopal church explained at what point in the ceremony Perry should walk up to the lectern to read and that after he was finished he should return to his seat in the congregation.
Here’s where our situation became even more problematic. The passage Perry was asked to read comes from 1 John 4:7-16. Just in case you don’t have it completely memorized, I will include it here for you to read.
Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.
This is how we know that we live in him and he in us: He has given us of his Spirit. And we have seen and testify that the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of the world. If anyone acknowledges that Jesus is the Son of God, God lives in them and they in God. And so we know and rely on the love God has for us.
God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.
I love John. I do. He’s second only to Peter in my love for Jesus’ disciples. I mean, how can you not love someone who refers to himself as “the one Jesus loved”? But let’s be honest. That passage of Scripture is a little bit of a tongue twister, even for someone who isn’t jacked up on illegally obtained prescription medication.
As the time came for Perry to walk up to the dais, I felt optimistic. He seemed much more coherent than he’d been earlier, and his movements appeared purposeful and not like those of a monkey after a bottle of gin. He approached the lectern with purpose and began strongly with a forceful declaration of “A reading from 1 John.”
But then, as he tells it, the words in the Bible began to move around. It felt as though the Bible had come to life. And not in a good way. So he stumbled over words and lost his place, and there was a moment of silence in between phrases that probably only lasted ten seconds but felt more like five minutes from where I sat in the second row.
Mercifully, he arrived at the end of the passage, closed the Bible, and took a step back as he looked around. And then I watched in horror as he decided to stay up on the dais and took a seat in the large throne-like chair that was meant for the priest. He wouldn’t have been any more conspicuous had he been a cat in a pantsuit.
When it was all over and the groom had kissed his bride, I went to collect “Bernie” with the certainty that it would probably be best if we skipped the reception portion of the evening. It seemed prudent to get Perry home as soon as possible. So we got in the car and I drove us home, while Perry asked the question I’d been dreading: “How did I do? Could you tell I was medicated?”
God forgive me.
“No. Not at all. You did great. It was just perfect.” Because that’s what you do for the person you’ve vowed to love and cherish forever. In that moment he didn’t need a critic; he needed a cheerleader. And fortunately, being a cheerleader falls directly into my particular set of skills.
And then I c
hanged the subject. “How are you feeling? Are you ready for bed?” The answer was apparently yes, because he had already fallen asleep in the passenger seat. So I helped him into bed as soon as we got home, where he remained for the next day or so until his back was legitimately better and not just numbed by enough medicine to kill a horse.
Nothing else was said about the wedding and the Scripture reading for several weeks. We didn’t really know most of the other people who had been in attendance, which I felt was God’s favor on us. But then the newlyweds returned from their honeymoon, and we asked them over for dinner one evening.
As we sat and talked over the delicious pizza I’d slaved over in the form of calling to get it delivered, our discussion turned to the wedding ceremony. Perry and I confessed to them how bad his back had really been and that we thought he wasn’t going to make it, but we didn’t want to leave them in a bind at the last minute.
And that’s when the new bride and her husband began to laugh until they cried. We weren’t sure what was so funny until she explained that they had just been at her parents’ house earlier watching the wedding video for the first time, and her mother asked as she watched Perry read and sit down in the priest’s chair, “What exactly was wrong with that young man?”
That’s when Perry realized I’d been a cheerleader instead of a critic. But as I explained to him later, there was really no need to hit him with the cold, hard truth in his moment of weakness. Sometimes in marriage you just need to be on your partner’s side, to be his shelter from the storms of the world. To defend him and encourage him, even when he butchers passages of Scripture at a friend’s wedding.
As we navigate our way through this life, there are so many people who are ready to take shots at us and hit us in our blind spots. Your spouse should fall into the category of people you can trust to have your back and say, “Oh, it wasn’t that bad.” Because enough voices will tell you, “YES, it was that bad,” and sometimes we all just need a soft place to land.
Even if it involves stealing a chair from an Episcopal priest.
CHAPTER 13
The Couple That Shops Together Has My Sympathies
I LOVE TO SHOP. No, don’t argue with me. I do. I shop like some people breathe. It’s just who I am. And I don’t even have to buy (sometimes). I just like to look. I like to see the outfits in window displays and walk through Anthropologie and try to figure out why designers hate women enough to bring back floral-printed skinny jeans. Because let’s be honest: if they don’t look good on the mannequin, then they aren’t going to work on a woman who actually has more to her hips than plastic makeshift bones.
However, I was a big fan of the patterned skinny jeans back in 1985. I had some floral Guess jeans that would make you cry with jealousy and longing. Or at least they would have back in 1985. Those jeans, paired with some jelly shoes, a new polo, and a ribbon belt were a lethal combination as I walked the halls of George C. Marshall Middle School with the bilevel haircut favored by softball players everywhere.
But that was back when I had thighs the size of a thirteen-year-old girl because, well, I was a thirteen-year-old girl. Not to mention, my hair was enormous, and that helped tremendously in creating some sort of distraction from all the flowers across my rear end.
Anyway, when we got married, I was under no illusions that Perry would share my love of shopping. This is a man whose wardrobe consists of three plaid shirts, six Columbia fishing shirts, jeans, and khaki work pants. He also has a large, sombrero-like hat that he wears in the sun since he’s a landscaper and spends a good part of his day outside. To quote the J. Peterman catalog, “It combines the spirit of Old Mexico with a little big-city panache.” Or to quote Caroline, “Daddy looks like the man from Curious George.”
When we got married, my clothes took up our entire master-bedroom closet and the coat closet downstairs in our townhome. Perry’s clothes took up less than half of the tiny guest-room closet. This is where I also have to tell you that he hangs all his clothes on wire hangers. I just can’t even.
For a while I lived under the illusion that I was going to turn him into my very own Ken doll and create a spectacular mix-and-match wardrobe for him. Think Garanimals meets George Clooney.
But there is only so much rejection a girl can take. Only so many times you can hear, “Why do you want me to wear clown shoes?” when you bring home a pair of trendy black loafers or watch somebody gag like a cat hacking up a fur ball when they try on a beautiful green sweater you found on sale at J.Crew because they think the neck is too tight.
Guys don’t understand that sometimes fashion isn’t comfortable. Do they think we really want to wear the belt over the sweater and a pair of Spanx leggings that don’t allow us to breathe properly until we take them off at the end of the day? No. Of course we don’t. But it looks good. Like Billy Crystal as Fernando Lamas used to say, “It is better to look good than to feel good.”
No woman puts on a pair of four-inch heels and thinks, These feel heavenly. I could walk for miles. We put them on and immediately plan out how many times we can sit down during the day and know that by the evening we will want to cut off our feet with a dull butter knife because that would be less painful.
But the majority of men dress for comfort. Although I guess the invention of the pajama jean indicates this isn’t a purely male phenomenon. However, I believe few things indicate how far we’ve fallen as a society more than pajama jeans. Is it not casual enough to wear jeans? We have to turn them into something that feels like pajamas? The same goes for the Snuggie. For goodness’ sake, just wrap yourself in a blanket. Don’t try to turn it into some type of apparel you can wear around. Coco Chanel is rolling in her grave.
My grandmother wouldn’t leave her house without a full face of makeup even if she was on her deathbed, and now we wear pajama pants to the grocery store. Dear America, do better.
I can’t remember exactly when I gave up on my Ken doll fantasies for Perry’s wardrobe. Maybe when I realized Ken might not be a straight man. Whereas Perry hasn’t owned a hairbrush since he got rid of his mullet in 1989. Given this information, why did I think he would ever agree to wear a sweater vest?
Oh, I kid. I’d never want a man who wears a sweater vest.
(There was a time in college when Gulley and I attended a Christmas formal and ended up in a debate over who had the worst date. I won because my date wore a Christmas-themed sweater vest, and that is the nicest thing I can say about him.)
But every now and then, shopping with Perry is unavoidable. This usually occurs when Gap quits making the style of jeans he’s been wearing for the last six years and I insist he has to go to the store with me to find some new ones. Because ain’t nobody got time to bring home sixty-two pairs of jeans for her husband to try on.
This forced shopping adventure actually happened recently when Perry mentioned he was in the market for about three new pairs of jeans because he needed something nice to wear to church and out to dinner now that the weather was allegedly cooling off. Let’s have a moment of silence for the fact I’m married to a man that puts denim in the category of formal wear. My friends at Downton Abbey would be outraged.
I knew Gap had made some changes when the shirt I bought Perry for his birthday was way too small, thanks to clothing manufacturers’ decision that men need to wear shirts with an “athletic cut.” And yes, perhaps athletes should wear “athletic cut” shirts if they want to, but forty-year-old dads with bad backs and a penchant for Nilla Wafers should not be expected to live up to that standard.
(In all fairness, I certainly wouldn’t want to have to wear something labeled as “athletic cut.” It’s too much pressure. How about an “I like to watch television cut” or an “I ate mashed potatoes with gravy for dinner last night” cut? Let’s try to live in the real world.)
Anyway, the men’s denim section at Gap rivals the women’s section. There are boot cut jeans and straight jeans and authentic fit and easy fit and loose fit and skinny fi
t. And please, just say no to some men’s skinny fit jeans. That is forty-seven kinds of wrong. Unless you’re the worship leader of a really trendy church and wear a scarf even when it’s ninety degrees outside and say “Dude” without irony.
When I told Perry he was going to have to actually walk into a store with me and try on jeans because neither of us would survive the process of my bringing home every single type of jeans in whatever various sizes he might need, he wasn’t thrilled. So we waited for a rainy day when there was nothing better to do than be stuck in a “boring store” (his words), and we went out to eat breakfast first because we figured a good meal might help our nerves. (My nerves.) Then we stopped by Gap on our way home.
Y’all. Perry didn’t even know where Gap was.
If something ever happens to me, I’m going to need someone to step in and do a fashion intervention for my family.
(I’m currently taking applications. People who own pajama jeans need not apply.)
We walked in, and I showed him the jeans section. He began to read the different jeans descriptions out loud: “SITS LOW ON WAIST. SLIM THROUGH LEG. BOOT CUT OPENING.” And then he’d move to the next one: “SITS LOW ON WAIST. RELAXED THROUGH LEG. STRAIGHT LEG OPENING.” After Rain Man read all the descriptions, he grabbed three different types of jeans in only one size and headed to the dressing room while I followed him.
And then I waited outside by the three-way mirrors like I was Kevin Arnold’s mother in an episode of The Wonder Years. “Plenty of room in Kevin Arnold’s crotch area.”
Perry came out first in the Easy Fit, and I was immediately alarmed by the size of the back pockets. I can only assume that the Easy in Easy Fit means that it’s easy to fit a bunch of stuff in your back pockets, because they were like clown pants. Which means they would have looked great with those black loafers I’d brought home a few years before. Maybe add a big red nose and a rainbow Afro to complete the look.
The Antelope in the Living Room: The Real Story of Two People Sharing One Life Page 10
