June 19, 2013

This morning, I fucked up the eggs.

A friend once told me that you could fry an egg in the microwave. “Just put it in a glass microwave-safe bowl and heat it for a minute,” she said. “It cooks perfectly!” My friend, evidently, hasn’t met my microwave. Patrick and I had been theorizing about the cosmic strength of the hand-me down gifted to us by my mother. Today, it proved true our worst assumptions.

Thirty seconds into heating—KABLAM!—all over our newly wiped down super-human appliance. Egg on the top. Egg on the bottom. Egg all over the circular glass rotating plate. Patrick came downstairs just in time to witness the explosion. Living up to his given title of “Greatest Husband in the World—EVER!” he immediately wet a paper towel and began scrubbing. But this wasn’t what I wanted for our morning…

Last night, I was on the phone with my best friend from college, Hannah, while cooking boxed mac and cheese for dinner. It was around the time Patrick was supposed to be coming home from work, and, fewer than two weeks into our marriage, I sheepishly confessed that I wanted to be off the phone when he arrived.

While I’m not entirely sure where it comes from, I have this grand vision every time it turns 6:30 p.m. of me rushing to greet Patrick as soon as I hear his key turn in the lock. I’m wearing a form-fitting apron over my house dress with my hair up and make-up done, traipsing around in kitten heels. I take off his suit coat and hang it in our nonexistent closet and then hand him Time while lighting his already-in-mouth cigar. He sweeps me into his arms and kisses my cheek as I ask him about his day and then usher him into our candlelit dining room with a steaming roast garnishing the always-set table.

I know, I know. It’s hard to believe I’m a modern American woman, let alone a feminist. I guess I get my idea of how this whole family dinner thing is supposed to work from the reruns of black and white sitcoms I used to watch on TV Land. I know it’s sexist and obviously unrealistic, but in these shows, everyone always looked so happy around the table.

I, on the other hand, can’t remember a single family dinner my parents, brother, and I had together when my mom and dad were married. My mom was never a big cook. Her inability to smell convinced her that fat-free anything and everything tastes as good as the real stuff. Food was there to for us to eat—not necessarily for us to enjoy. Since there was never any camaraderie or special dish to look forward to, dinner was always more of a practicality than an end of the day family gathering to look forward to.

I’m also currently unemployed, so I feel that the least I can do is cook elaborate meals and keep things clean around the house. I know Patrick and I both agreed that it made sense for me to wait to find a permanent job—up until now I’ve been freelance writing—until after we were married. But I feel useless and guilty that he is the only one earning steady money, which no longer supports only him but also me.

In reality, I had just finished stirring in the neon orange powdered substance as I heard Patrick fumbling with the unlocked door. While I did rush to greet him at the entrance, I made it in time mostly because of my active ensemble, consisting of running shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops. I thought I had washed my face that morning but couldn’t remember for sure. I forgot to pull a National Geographic off the bookshelf and the pack of American Spirits we bought in change from the convenience store last weekend was still upstairs on the dresser.

“How was your day?” I managed to get out between a sequence of kisses he initiated.

“I missed you,” he said.

He doesn’t ever need to know about the roast.

June 26

I’m afraid of everything. I’m going to die. Patrick’s going to die. We’re both going to die together—horrifically. We’re going to be shot. Get hit. Trip and break our necks.

I didn’t used to be like this. I also didn’t used to be this happy.

Before, whenever I went through major life transitions, I’d convince myself that I was pregnant. I’d dream about being with child and then research the symptoms, which I coincidentally always had. So far, I’ve taken three at-home pregnancy tests in my life—all before I even had sex. Strangely enough, they all came back negative. But now that I could get pregnant, I’ve moved on to more serious concerns.

My line of reasoning goes like this: No one else I know is this happy. No one in life is supposed to be this happy. Life is not this good. This happiness must be too good to be true. Therefore, one of us is going to be killed.

The ideal death situation for me and Patrick would be for us to die together in our sleep while holding hands on the night of our 60th wedding anniversary. If I were God, this is how we would go. I’m not God, but that’s not going to stop me from trying to control every aspect of our health.

Once we got engaged, I cut Patrick’s caffeine intake—primarily, coffee. I also made him start wearing a helmet—which he soon thanked me for when he flipped over his bicycle handlebars the next afternoon—and text me every time he makes it safely to and from work. We’ve started eating more fruits and vegetables. We’ve also started exercising. If Patrick’s sick or sore, I make him go to the doctor. I check on him when he’s in the shower. Or at the store. Even when he’s going to the bathroom. So far, I’ve diagnosed him with arthritis and diabetes for sure, though a doctor has yet to confirm my assessment.

Patrick isn’t the only one ailing. Within the last month, I’ve survived a brain aneurysm, contracted and then reversed herpes, and overcome a UTI. This last one was real. At least, I think.

I get nervous driving. I get nervous walking. I get nervous sitting on the couch. Someone’s going to break into our house. Some one’s going to jump me. I’m surely going to be kidnapped. And if somehow I or my love manages to be spared, then we’re going to become the killers! Not on purpose, of course, but accidents happen. This weekend we have plans to install a window AC unit in the upstairs bedroom of our rowhome. We were supposed to do it a couple weeks ago but stopped halfway through the process when I became too afraid that it would slip out of our hands, fall two stories, and land on an innocent child who happened to be walking by at that exact moment.

I guess you could say that I struggle letting myself have a good thing. I think the real issue is that I feel undeserving. I am celebrated. I am cherished. I am cared for. Why am I so lucky? What did I do to deserve this love?

Since I can’t seem to figure out the answer, I’ll continue to prepare for the worst. Or, I suppose, I could be thankful. We can’t afford another visit to Patient First…