Eating Crow

At a wedding a few years ago, I ran into the older sister of a good friend. I had mostly looked up to her; she had recently gotten married. I had recently endured the unfortunate Marital False Start. Not a little disillusioned, I smiled tightly and asked her, "How's married life?"

Her new, curly-haired husband behind her, she shot him a glance and muttered, "Umm, it's an adjustment," in too many Southern syllables. My face fell. I wanted her to tell me I was right before, wrong to lose faith. I wanted her to tell me it was better than she ever expected. She didn't.

I have often thought of her, and repeated that line in jest. But I haven't made fun of late, as life has been full of serious adjustments.

My husband leaves his boxers and shorts on the shelf in the bathroom where he sheds them to shower. Every day. If he wonders, he never asks how said shorts miraculously appear under his pillow each night when he needs them. Nor does he question who made our bed, though he usually exits it long after I'm out the door. These are adjustments.

But mostly the adjustments have had little do "us." I'm aware that my speech patterns have changed. I'm self conscious of the "we" and "My husband" clauses that pepper my language. Of my six inboxes, only two bear the right name. My fingers shake and pause while I decide who I am today. Credit card receipts? Old name. Benefits forms? New name. ID to go with credit card receipts? License. ID to go with work-issued badges? Passport. And so on.

I am relearning the meaning of working for the weekend. I never wanted to be the kind of person who danced for joy on Fridays. However, on the past two Fridays, I could have worn Hawaiian shirts with pride; I was so excited. The Boy felt the same. In celebration, I drank more than a beer and a half. I anticipate the trend will continue. Fortunately, it's light beer.

Saturday we walked miles of city asphalt, stopping for drinks and kebabs at street festivals, buying used cds and clothes. We cooked a heart healthy feast for Dad on Sunday to mark the most important Father's Day yet. On the way home, with the windows open (causing my not quite long enough layers to escape my ponytail and whip me in the face), I squinted and sighed. "I just need one more day," I told The Boy. There's another adjustment. The return of the Sunday night depression. I have not yet discovered a cure for that one.

This week, we look forward to the comeback of at least a little normalcy. Gyms will be visited, meals will be crafted instead of nuked. But Friday will come, bearing the promise of great seats to the sold-out Battle of the Beltway, and I will be there. Light beer in hand.