Matthew Peter Karpe, babes, can you believe it’s been two years?? Two years! 730 days. 17,520 hours. 1,051,200 minutes. Apparently… you have sticking power… like Gorilla Glue ;-) Do you remember that night, our second (well, second, third and fourth) date? We were at Jeanna and Mike’s wedding ceremony, nibbling on some Asian-chicken-something-or-other, and exchanging a few tales of our past relationships. I remember feeling just a slight bit perturbed by something you said. You inferred that because of the length of my past relationships, they were somehow less significant. I felt both offended (that someone whom I had only recently met could make such an assumption), and also, I felt vulnerable (that someone whom I had only recently met was seeing me, really seeing me). It’s like you saw right through my white, paisley sleeveless dress and peered into my heart. And that was just the beginning. When we were in France, I was faced with a huge challenge: to conjure up the teachings and memories of a language in which I was, at one point, nearly fluent, but that which was layered in dust and cobwebs after fifteen years of vacancy. Alas, I did some preparation and I took the plunge! I told you so long as you learn how to say “Please”, “Thank you” and “Do you speak English?” en francais, than I would do all the heavy lifting. And I did! But it was scary. After all, my potential misstatements or misinterpretations could not only get me lost or in trouble, but I’d be taking you down with me! Now, on our second leg of the journey, when we said adieu to Lyon to make our way south to Nice, I was challenged yet again. Gare de Lyon was fluttering with people; people going and coming from here and to there. The station felt dauntingly huge; two stories; incredibly tall, echoing ceilings; newsstands and quick-service boulangeries everywhere; and so, so many people! Our tickets were unclear as to where we were supposed to board our train. And the time was rapidly ticking by. I found a manned informational booth and asked for assistance. I restated the directions I was provided to you immediately in English (after all, we know how forgetful I can be at times…). And we hurriedly scooted our butts over to the area where trains were departing. And, according to the directions provided, we went to the exact lane with the proper number indicated above it. I sighed a huge breath of relieve (yay! We didn’t miss it!), and gratefully relieved my shoulders from my backpack. “Here,” I said, “it’s this one.” For some reason, though, you didn’t set your bag down. You kept looking around. You meandered back around the other trains. And you swiftly and conclusively decided that that wasn’t, in fact, our train, and instead, it was a different one several lanes up that was currently boarding passengers!! Turns out, you were right. The ticket person was not. You followed your intuition. And I trusted you (well, I had to trust you; after we were in this together). You showed me incredible trust during that trip by relying on me to communicate for the both of us. And that day at Gare de Lyon, you showed me how to trust you – your sense of intuition, your sense of place, and your willingness to take care of me. This last story is one of my least favorites. Um, what? Yeah, least. Because, well, I looked like crap! And you saw me look like crap! You remember. It was the day I had some sort of strange allergic reaction to a combination of things (dust, nuts, mold, who knows?!). The effect was that which is extremely rare for me (thank goodness): My face ballooned up into a Star Trek character! Horrible! Hate it. It started out slowly (these things sneak up on you) so I decided to quickly get some Benadryl in me, let time do its thing, and bike to the gym. Upon arriving to the gym, however, I thought maybe I better do a quick mirror check. I walked into the women’s restroom and lowered my sunglasses just enough… to gasp! Better was it NOT. Worse. Much worse. I was in no shape for the gym (let alone to work the next day where I would certainly frighten all the small children). So. I did what any normal person would do. I promptly returned home, cried in the shower, and locked myself in the bathroom so you wouldn’t see me – the disaster – when you returned from your softball game. Return you did. You were filled with concern since we never lock the bathroom door. After several of your pleas, I finally opened the door (a towel held over my face) and, in between sobs, explained to you what had happened. You lowered my towel, and looked at me. You looked at me with kindness, and above all, logic. You said, “Let’s get some ice on that.” You comforted me. You comforted me with your words, your kindness, your pragmatism! That day you made me realize this wasn’t, in fact, a deal breaker. Rather than my handicapped face sending you straight out the door, you pulled me in. And, now I know! I could have a hamster for a face and you’d still love me ;-) It’s taken two years. But these two years have taught me that you see me – you really see me. You want to take care of me, and you do such a good job. And you love me for so much more than my exterior. You love all of me. And I trust that. Thank you for an amazing two years. Cheers to the next many!
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorVanessa Ann, a writer and environmentalist. She possesses a Master of Applied Science in Environmental Policy & Management from the University of Denver. Her writing, at times, can be... a little sarcastic with just a dash of snarky. Archives
June 2019
CategoriesWant more?
Vanessa is also a long-time contributing author (and former President) for the Sustainability Alliance of the University of Denver. Check out her published newsletters here: Some Say the Debate is Over. Yet the Heat Won’t Seem to Go Away, November 2016 Corn. It’s In Everything & It’s No Bueno for the Environment, February 2016 The Pursuit of Sustainability, August 2015 |
Proudly powered by Weebly