When he goes high
Remember that time Michelle Obama stood on stage in J. Crew that looked like Armani and said, when they go low, we go high!
You remember. They were beautiful words. Words to live by. Words to quote whenever you think about the way 50% of our country behaves. Words that have landed in the hall of fame of phrases alongside Ask not… and One small step… and If you’re tired you take a Napa, you don’t go to Napa (we all have our heroes).
And, turns out, words you could use to explain how my Quarantine has decided I should approach my marriage for the duration of this pandemic. My Quarantine gets capitalized because it’s a living, breathing thing. A villain, really. It has me under its force field or mind field or whatever villains use to make your hair gray and your stomach bloat and your brain not want to sleep for the past 30 days. I think it’s a she because only a she would be so clever in her approach to taking me down. Do you know that my skin is glowing. Glowing for the first time in 20 years. Nary a pimple in sight and no where to go. That’s the work of pure, feminine evil.
But back to Mobama.
My husband is a ray of sunshine. A ship in a storm. An extra set of headphones when you’ve lost yours and desperately need them to “hide” - from him. He goes high. He mostly lives high (sans medicinal assistance). And now, thanks to My Quarantine: I go low.
I’m the bad guy in a Michelle Obama speech. I’m the wrong 50% of America. I Go to Napa.
Remember when you were 13 and your parents said, “It’s a beautiful day. Want to take a walk in the park?” and you said, “No. I hate parks and walking and it’s going to rain in fifteen minutes according to my Dark Skies app.” Well I said that yesterday .. to the man I love .. at age 36.
They say misery loves company. They’re wrong. At least, they’re wrong as it applies to living in five rooms with one person for what is now 30 days.
My misery does not love a companion. It loves an opponent.
I’m sure there is a physiological rationale for this situation. I’m sure that containment + intimacy - any other people = mood. I feel like this all has something to do with control and power and space? I like - fine - need all three of those things and I currently have none. That makes me akin to a caged animal, which is akin to a 13-year-old, which would explain why when my husband raised his glass over the dinner he cooked and said, “cheers to making it another day!” I said, “Yeah, whatever.”
But the problem is, I don’t want to be Big. I want to be Aiden. I don’t want to claim the sky is green when it’s clearly blue. It makes me feel sad and bad and mean.
Do I have a choice in this matter? Are people born dark or light? Is Big just an Aiden that didn’t learn how to meditate? There’s only one way to find out.
Option one: I can take a deep breath and tell My Quarantine that, instead of saying whatever we’re going to try saying I’m sorry but I’m going to frown while I cheers you because I had another hard day. Thank you for dinner. Also, I’d like to watch TV alone for 1 hour after we eat.
Or - options two - I can see what happens if I make him go low?
Stay tuned.
