The other morning I asked you, "are you okay that I'm so high maintenance?" as I applied my mascara and french braided my hair. You scoffed a little bit as you said yes.
You understood my unspoken comparison to the two women before me -your mom and Becky. The two women who were your examples of mom and wife and lady. You acknowledged my difference -my love for mascara, my collection of more shoes than should be legel, and my disdain for hiking.
We fought about hiking last week. How I hate it and you love it and aren't we supposed to do fun things -by fun you mean hiking- together? I said, fine, I'll hike. You said, just what I wanted to hear. Saturday came, I was tired and a little bit hungover and you said, "we're going to have fun today." So we hiked in a forest in the middle of nowhere.
You spent the duration of the hike saying over this hill the trees will give way and it'll open up into a field. Finally, after you made your claim for the tenth time, the forest did give way to open spaces where there were cows and giant jackrabbits and fields blowing in the wind. I rolled my eyes that you were right because, well, it seems you often are despite my desire for you to be wrong.
It was actually beautiful -that spot of stark comparison: lush greenness filled with more mystery than understood beauty with the open, honest expanse of amber waves. That's us. One overwrought with words and emotions and with more questions than answers; the other stable and humble yet overwhelming in immensity. Our marriage is that spot upon the hill where the trees kissed the fields and the transition from one to the other seemed just right despite the obvious difference a few steps made.
As we wandered from one climate to another, I was reminded me of the Hawaiian river on our honeymoon. That river in Hawaii where Indiana Jones heroically swung off a rope over the water and plunged into the current below. We did that. And I felt so adventurous and exhilarated. In the cool of the river dragging myself over the rocky shore, I thought how life is like a movie sometimes. Except better; like the movies but better.
Daily I compare the way you love me with the way of the movies. I'd skip all those flowers and roses and staged make out sessions for the precious love you give to me. Movie love says that because we're married, I'll love hiking, we'll make out in those hills, and then you'll fill my mind with all kinds of mushy, sweet nothings while the grasses blow beside our rock-hard bodies.
Our love looks like us sweating while we drag ourselves through the forest then the fields to some rock that looks like an animal we can't quite see. It's a love that's stronger than my distaste for hiking, that's chock full of deep belly laughs and random accents in the rolling hills. It's a love that doesn't lay in the grasses (because snakes) but instead sits on the path tossing grapes into each other's noses because we can't hit each other's mouth.
Like I said, better than the movies dear.
Comparatively, Jason, I love you in proportions larger than my size can express,
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -These letters are the brainchild of Amber C. Haines and her husband, Seth. They write to remind themselves of points in their marriage, of moments in their relationship, and of their perspective of one another. I write for the same reasons, plus the chance for these letters to shed light on our marriage before children for our children because they won't know us as newlyweds otherwise.