In this lockdown, I’ve made a surprising discovery — I really, really like folding laundry.
I’ve been obsessed with minimalism for awhile now, but our recent inability to shop in person has fanned the flames of that crush into a roaring bonfire.
The synagogues are empty
the walls are blank faces
Sometimes, spirituality is about singing soulful songs and connecting over shared values and commonality of ideas. Like Friday night at camp. Like Passover Seder at your grandparents’. Like wiping away your happy tears at a chuppah.
My grandmothers are alive.
In the flurry of holidays, our 26th anniversary quietly slipped by. It’s no great milestone, but anniversaries always get me pensive: who were those young, dumb kids who tied the knot all those years ago?
What did we know? We didn’t understand life. We didn’t understand each other. We barely understood ourselves.
We committed to one another based on shared values and mutual goals. Not a bad way to make a big decision like marriage. But I think we had no clue how different we were.
I love adventure. I love to travel, to try new things. I’ve gone skydiving. My plan for our anniversary trip was trimmed down from Australia to Italy. My husband, however, is a homebody. He thinks Chicago is a nice adventure (crossing state lines and all). He is so freaked by skydiving that he couldn’t even bear to come along and watch.
You may have noticed that I live life out loud. If you are a regular reader here, you know a lot about me. A lot more than I know about you – which is sometimes weird when strangers tell me they read my column and I frantically calculate which of my secrets they know. I’m vocal on social media and I have lots of friends. My husband is a private guy (but because he’s nice, he okayed me writing about him). He never posts on his social media and is not quite sure what motivates me in this openness.
I’m loud and flowery. I like colors and scarves and jewelry and hats and fun shoes. He wears a rabbi suit every single day.
I’m a visual learner; he’s an audio guy. I like dairy; he likes meat. I like independence; he likes conformity.
I prefer to think, talk, delegate and strategize. He rolls up his sleeves and gets the job done. I’m good with words while he’s good with deeds. I like plans and schedules and he likes to leave his options open. I purge; he saves. I like to handle things right away, but he appreciates thinking things over.
So while we married based on sameness, we were clueless about the sheer differentness.
The irony, of course, is that it is often that which we don’t even know is good for us, that’s good for us. The balance that has been achieved in our relationship, with hard work and lots of blessing from Above, is so much better for me than sameness. The humbleness that is a byproduct of melding your life with another human being over 26 years is a prize worth fighting for. The self-awareness that arises from bumping up against Other day after day after day is worth everything.
Marry for sameness because I promise, there will be enough differentness to fill a book. Hopefully a good book, a yearbook, a happy book, written over five or ten or 25 or 50 years of marriage.
For now, I am serene. Who was that person 26 years ago? I can’t even remember. But the me of today, her I know. Her I know well. And for that, I have to thank my Chicago-bound rabbi-suited introverted terra-firma husband.
It’s Yom Kippur season, and that’s not good news for the Jews.