(finding parenthood painfully funny)
Photo: Nicole Blaine Family Archives
My biggest fear came into existence on May 13, 1996. Clinton was our beloved President (pre-Lewinsky), Sammy Sosa was the first Chicago Cub to hit two home runs in one inning (pre-testing positive for performance enhancing drugs), and, ironically, Ironic by Alanis Morissette was at the top of the charts.
I bounced into my dorm room with all the energy of an undecided freshman who just decided that everything the previous generations did was wrong. I was going to change it all. I was going to be the catalyst of a better future. I was going to… ask my dumb mute roommate why she was on my side of the room. “I was leaving you a note. Some guy named Mickey called and said to pick him up at the airport.”
What? Mickey? The Mickey from high school? The Mickey that I had been secretly in love with since 1991? The Mickey whose name was written all over the bathroom stalls? The Mickey that had real headshots? (See headshot.) And made enough money acting to buy himself a silver Mazda Miata so he looked like James Dean? The Mickey that was a hot high school senior who was funny, and made me laugh, and didn’t ignore me even though I was a flat chested high school freshman that hadn’t gotten my period yet? THE MICKEY???
Yes. That Mickey. Shit. What should I wear?
Cut off jean shorts. Black tank top. No bra. Flannel around waist. Doc Martins. Obviously.
I watched him walk off the plane (pre 9/11: you could watch people walk off planes. Super romantic). He held my hand. What? What was happening? All of a sudden I was in a cheesy 80’s movie where the girl next door gets the super hot guy. I expected a saxophone solo to start playing as we kissed on top of an old car, while he held a boombox over his head, and Duckie watched us from a corner, wiping a single tear.
I blurted, “What are you doing here?” His giant blue eyes stared into me, past my soul and into my vagina. I couldn’t breathe. “I came to tell you that I love you.” I felt light headed. “Thank you.” I mumbled. He continued, “And I’m going to marry you one day.” I simultaneously peed, pooped, threw up in my mouth a bit and orgasmed.
6 years later we were married. The Mickey and I have been living the greatest love affair in the history of the world for the last 19 years. Not a day goes by that I do not feel this way. I mean, there have been days I’ve almost put my thumbs through his eye ball sockets and slowly brought his brain to a screeching halt, but in the end, I always come back to the same overwhelming feeling that if there is such a thing as soulmates, he is most definitely mine. In my life this is where I got lucky. I didn’t get money or a good, safe childhood home, have my dream job, or get mistaken for Scarlett Johansson. Everyone has their lucky thing in life, mine is true love. (Suck it, freshman girls who wrote about him on the bathroom stalls.)
Cut to today. The Mickey sold his car last June. Being car free this summer has provided The Mickey with enjoying the pleasure of bicycling everywhere. He does not want a new car. No, he loves biking so much he insists that when he goes back to work he wants to bike 16 miles to work every morning and 16 miles back every afternoon. So instead of a car, he wants to buy a brand new electric bike. This means he’ll save tons of money without a car, help the environment, and work out each day without paying for a gym membership. Brilliant! He’s super excited!
No! No, I say! Trust me, I’d love for you to drop a good 20 pounds and look like that guy from the headshot (see headshot again, just for fun) that I loved banging when we were kids, and I appreciate you going green, and as a good Jew, I certainly love you getting rid of the car costs and gym membership, but there is no way in hell I want to lose you to some millennial texting while driving. No. I need you alive. Soulmates don’t do well alone. You saw Braveheart. Duh. And we have two young kids. And you’re the better parent. I’m just like… your support. I’m your parental wingman.
“There is no way in hell I want to lose you to
some millennial texting while driving.”
Which brings me back to my biggest fear that cultivated 19 years, 4 months and 13 days ago (assuming today is October 1, 2015). The fear of losing him. I would not be able to live without him, but The Mickey really wants the bike.
Okay, I tell you what. Here is your ultimatum. This is not a threat. This is a promise.
1) If you die I will shoot myself in the face with a shotgun (after purchasing said shotgun, which will be easy because we live in America – you know the country that has lost more people to gun violence than any war we’ve ever fought in, including the Civil War – look it up). You will be the one responsible for abandoning our two young children. That will be on you. The suicide note I leave the kids will say “Daddy loved bike riding more than you.”
2) If you become a quadriplegic who drools out of every orifice, I will prop you up in the corner of our bedroom. And I will fuck all of your friends every night in front of you. And I will do all the things you ever wanted me to do to you in bed, as in, I will not just lie there.
The choice was presented to The Mickey. With out hesitating, he got the bike. I have applied for a gun license and started stretching and doing my kegel exercises.
I fucking hate the love of my life. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?