There couldn’t be a more perfect day to tell this story as today is my husband’s birthday. While I try to tell him everyday how much he means to me, my average is more like two to three times per week. I use the other days to tell him how to get his plates into the dishwasher rather than near it or how to get the laundry from the washer to the dryer or, well, you understand, right?
My nagging may outweigh my accolades in the real world but the accolades far outweigh the nagging in my heart.
I cannot imagine my life without this man. I cannot imagine his life without me but I do imagine it would be a much quieter, calmer place. It is strange to think that ours is considered a “late in life” love story, having not even met until our forties, as it feels like we have been glued to each other’s sides for much longer than just over a decade. We have recently started placing each other into stories from our past though we hadn’t even met when those stories actually took place. It is an odd phenomenon that is often discovered with the words, “Oh, that wasn’t actually me, love…”
We now talk of rewriting those stories so that we can both be in them. For instance, it wasn’t with Rich that I spent a week in my twenties discovering Martha’s Vineyard but my mind really wants it to have been him. What if we recreated that trip, just the two of us? Or, it wasn’t me who took a road trip, with Rich, through Yuma and Area 51 and on to San Diego. Rich’s brain has tricked him into thinking I was there so why not make it so?
There will never be enough words to express how having Rich in my life has changed me. I cannot explain who he is to me because, when I do, it sounds like I’m still mastering my native tongue. He is truly the best person I know and, because of that, he often steals my breath and my ability to form sentences.
Last weekend, Rich took me on a field trip that most females would probably jump into enthusiastically. We went to the mall for a totally Jyl-focused shopping trip. Why? Humble-brag alert…between the two of us, Rich and I have lost nearly one-hundred pounds over the last 18 months and, well, one of us is still holding onto a wardrobe filled with items that really do not fit anymore.
Her name is me.
She is the same person that absolutely hates shopping for clothes.
In fairness, retailers do not make it easy for females of all ages to shop. Girls sections include booty shorts and mid-driff shirts while teen sections include outfits meant for clubbing and women’s sections often stop at size 8. I am not a size 8 (nor should I be). I get anxiety just thinking about strolling into a clothing store on the hunt for pants, shorts, or jeans knowing that, at some point, someone will non-helpfully say, “Oh, we don’t carry larger sizes in store, you’d have to order those online.”
I will then have to resist the urge to snap, blurting out, “What the fuckity fuck, now??? How am I supposed to try anything on if I can only order online? What if I need jeans today and not in 7-10 business days?”
Fun Fact: While you may have to order online, returns must be done in person to avoid a restocking fee. Again, what the fuckity fuck? I can’t buy the clothes in person, but there is a penalty for returning via the same mode I got them. This should be against the law.
Poor Rich. He may have thought I was exaggerating or being dramatic when I tried to explain this to him. Then, he got a taste of this reality in our very first store as three steps in, while leafing through a pile of cute jeans, someone non-helpful explained that I’d have to order my size online and well…you get the rest. To be extra non-helpful, they also suggested I just try on a smaller size to see if I like the style. What the fu…well, you get the rest.
I did resist the urge to lash out. I mean, it was only our very first store and also, I’d pregamed with a Valium. Rich also got to experience the way each store sizes the same sizes differently. Evidently, men can pick up a size-34 in any store, anywhere on the planet and the waist will be the same. What. A. Treat.
Women? Hilarious. Try a size anything in one store and the same will fit completely differently in the next and the next and the next and I am talking inches in variances.
Anyway.
The goal of this Sunday at the mall was to find me a few pair of pants that actually fit.
After striking out at the first few stores, I hopefully suggested we head home because, well, surely my point had been made, right? Rich now understood the quandary of shopping for women’s clothing and why it causes our resting bitch faces to turn into real bitch faces and, yes, it’s totally fine to just keep your same clothes forever and ever even if they don’t fit and maybe have a few stains?
“Nope, we’ll find your store. It’s here somewhere.”
Ummmmm, what now?
There is an area at our shopping mall that I have never entered because I just knew it wasn’t for me. The window displays scream, “For the hippest of the hip!” which often translates to “Size 6 and Under!” Rich did not catch my panicked vibe or attempts to steer him away and, instead, strolled quite confidently into that very shopping area. He swung the door to Free People open and was zipping around the store before I could even say, “I need a mimosa chaser.”
The clothes were absolutely unique (five stars as I like things that are different) but I just knew that there was going to be nothing for me. Still, he carried on, holding things up while I nodded with feigned enthusiasm. We found the cutest, very “me” pants ever but, really, what were the chances of getting them above my knees. We made our way to the changing rooms and Rich settled into the viewing chair while I braced myself for the next round of failure.
And then? The very “me” pants fit. They fit perfectly. Well, perfectly if I were four inches taller, but perfectly enough for a tailor to shorten without breaking a sweat.
Ummmmm, what now?
Had we done it? Had we found success in a place that seemed the most unlikeliest of places minutes prior? Yes. And then, Rich did two of the most =sweetest things of all: He refused to let me near the register (he knows I hate buying things full price or for any price, really, that doesn’t involve a hefty coupon) and he refused to let me carry the bag.
Did I just become Julia Roberts? Were we about to head back to all those other stores, waving our bags around while declaring, “Big Mistake. Big. Huge.”?
No, actually because though we had completed the mission (in my mind) we were actually heading straight into the next store (what?) to see if we could start a streak. The spring in Rich’s step bounced him right into Madewell where we both tried on jeans and, holy hell, we were on a roll. Those jeans did not get a fancy bag for Rich to carry because they were also about two-inches too long and the super helpful person there simply marked the proper length before saying, “We’ll tailor them for you free of charge.”
Did I just find heaven because I definitely did not think I’d get past the pearly gates…
Rich is truly the best person I know. Even now, as I write this, he has asked if I want to go out for another round of shopping. He is so proud–deservedly so. I’m half-tempted to show him the joy of bra shopping but, well, it is his birthday weekend and I’d like to gift him with a meltdown-free day.
Happy Birthday to the best editor (and husband and friend and other things…wink, wink) on the planet. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m incredibly happy that I did.