Expostulation

About five million years ago, when my husband-to-be and I were dating, a curious thing happened early on. On a lazy summer Sunday morning we were basking in the afterglow of an evening out and a night spent together. He made breakfast, probably an omelet. There was tea and toast with honey. I lounged on the couch wearing one of his shirts and watched him putter about the kitchen. I wasn't in love or really even thinking about the dreaded L-word. I wasn't assigning any labels to our relationship because I didn't know what it was yet. I wasn't afffixing either of us with specific roles involving specific behaviors. I simply knew in that moment that I was happy and was inwardly marveling at how quickly I had become so comfortable around this interesting, quirky, intelligent man. I had no expectations except that he would treat me with care and kindness and that he'd have the courtesy to not think of anyone else while he was kissing me. I had no agenda. I was willing to let what we were together evolve at its own pace and arrive where it was going of its own accord. I liked him and knew that I liked being with him. It was enough. After we ate he wandered over to the stereo to put on some music. I was thinking maybe Steely Dan or Clapton, though I didn't voice a request. This was the day of vinyl lp's and he pored over his considerable collection for a while. Aha, there it was. He pulled out an ancient Hank Williams album, dusted it off, and carefully placed the record on the turntable. Positioning the needle on a chosen track, he told me to sit back and listen. The lp was old and scratched and much crackling and hissing emerged from the speakers before any music could be heard. Then ole' Hank exploded into a rollicking number that contained the line, get that marryin' out of your head, I'll be a bachelor til I die! Talk about an ambiance killer. The soft feeling of contentment and comfort evaporated in an instant. He stood across the room, arms folded across his chest, appearing more than a little defiant, awaiting my reaction. The words of the song hung in the air making the room feel suddenly too small for what it contained. I was puzzled. Then I laughed and informed him he was protesting much too much. I left soon after, abandoning him to his Sunday afternoon bachelor devices. Later I was pondering his possible motivation for shattering the mood but I never asked him why. I guessed that there was something about the pace of our relationship that struck a nerve, and he felt the need to assert some control or express an opinion. That Sunday morning was more than twenty years ago yet it remains crystalline in my memory. Was it just one of those men-are-from-Mars-women-are-from-Venus moments or was it a relationship red flag I should have paid more attention to? I'm left with the thought that sometimes, when we allow ourselves to be open and let our guard down, that what happens can be terrifying even if we're enjoying it. I'm willing to be present while the we of you and I unfolds and presents itself. It's a fascinating and engaging process that I embrace rather than fear. I am a process kind of girl.