rolanni | The Mating Dance

Tuesday. Sunny and pretty dern cold. Trash and recycling are at the curb. The chickadees and the titmice that dined with us yesterday told their friends down at the bar and this morning we also have cardinals and mourning doves. I haven't seen any other interest, but I fear mine will have to be a pop-up diner.

Breakfast was stir-fried leftover veggies and rice. After I finished stir-frying, I removed the veggies to my bowl, cracked an egg into the frying pan, scrambled it around and added it to the bowl. Worked out well. Lunch will be soup today (yesterday, I decided on fish and the veggies of which I had leftovers this morning).

I really should leap right into the taxes, but -- when I was sitting with the Happy Lite this morning with Firefly on my knees, I read an article about marriage proposals and how they remain the last stage for the Grand Gesture in Romance (which is not true, actually, unless no one's doing epic weddings anymore?) -- the man down on his knees, his intended shocked, and charmed, and if she hadn't been exactly in love, this Lovely Gesture is the final nudge, because of course one must say yes! And how you film it and post it on Insta for all your friends to see. And how they're getting more and more over the top, because nothing says "I love you" like putting somebody into a spot where they don't dare spoil the spectacle.

Trés romantique.

I, of course, never intended to get married, and nor did Steve, having done that once and found it not to his taste. We did have, as I may have said once or twice, an instant connection, and I was prepared to share a household and cats with him forever, because we worked, snapped into each other like Legos. We decided to marry as a practicality, to ensure that, if I fell ill (again), I would be assured of someone who actually cared about what happened to me out there taking care of the details.

When I did fall ill, I couldn't even talk to Steve at his temp-agency job to tell him where I was, because I wasn't his wife. The receptionist at the agency did take a message, though.

I will pass lightly over the Utter Horror that I felt, sick, so very sick, when my mother walked into my hospital room.

The agency got my message to Steve, and he did eventually arrive. At which point my mother did one of the most humane things she had ever done for me. She told the doctor, "He'll take care of whatever you need." -- and left.

When things were less fraught, and I was recovered, Steve and I talked this event over, and I said, "I don't ever want that happen again. Do we need to go to a lawyer and get something written up to say that you'll speak for me?" And he said, "Let me think about it."

A couple days later, when I came home from work, he poured me a glass of wine, and handed me a carved wooden box.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Open it," he said.

So I did.