We’re at the beach. Oddly enough, it’s just the two of us this year: there’s a wee bit of construction going on at home, so we’ve decamped to Rehoboth without our usual entourage of family and friends. It’s hardly penal; in fact, it’s still my wife’s “happy place” and if she’s happy, then I’m happy, too.
She starts her day here with a bike ride. I start mine with a cup of coffee, maybe two. She jumps into her day pedaling with both feet while I prefer to ease into mine. “Come with me,” she pleads. “Can’t,” I say. “I need to produce another Musing for The Spy.” She gives me that look; you know the one I mean…
It’s OK to have happy places: plural. Her bike ride along the boardwalk is hers. It recalls her childhood, that time before life got complicated. It keeps her body parts moving, makes her feel healthy. I get that. Good for her! My morning happy place is here on the porch, enjoying my “peas and carrots” with a second cup of coffee, mulling over what to say to you. It might not sound all that happy, but there’s nothing like an idea that comes together, or a well-turned phrase, or exactly the right word in the right place at the right time. Or so I tell myself.
There was a time when I would have jumped on a bike and accompanied her into town to scope out a new bakery (her mission today). But that was then; this is now. I used to ride my bike a lot, but recently, I’ve eyed it with a fair measure of suspicion. Bikes are like electric eels: they’re slippery creatures and one good jolt could land me on my keister. Better to work on my keyboard; just as challenging and much less likely to end in disaster. Or not.
Anyway, I’ve tried to convince her that’s it’s OK to have multiple happy places, hers and mine. I’ve even gone so far as to posit that there’s more than just one happy place on any given day. Happy places depend on the time of day, the weather, the company we keep, the books we’re reading. One thing I do know: this year, neither one of us can find our happy place in the ocean. Seems as though the jellyfish have claimed it as their happy place this year. There are no jellyfish in my happy place, nor in hers.
I realize marriage entails—among many things—moments of compromise. But there is also a place for individuality, for “you-be-you” and “I’ll-be-me.” As long as those twin elements of individuality can coexist peacefully, we’re fine. In fact, we’re more than fine: we’re each and both in our happy places simultaneously.
I understand my wife’s devotion to movement. It’s who she is. She’s less sure about my sedentary habits, but she tolerates them— to a degree. I say “to a degree” because I’m sure she would like me to share her bike adventures—like dodging people on the boardwalk so she can bring me an almond croissant or an egg sandwich from some new bakery in town. I’m quite content to await her return with the goods.
Maybe by the time she’s back, I’ll have finished this week’s Musing. Meanwhile, there’s still coffee in the pot.
I’ll be right back.