When I am home alone, I like to stand at the kitchen counter
in my jean shorts – even in the dead of winter – and eat thick slices of sharp
cheddar cheese off a knife, as I watch The Office reruns on my cell phone.
It’s my thing. It’s
my secret
single behavior, a term coined by Carrie Bradshaw in an episode of Sex & the City that I had watched
when I was too young to understand the concept, too young to have developed
these habits myself. But I moved out of
my family’s house ten years ago, and have since been living in the city, my preferences
slowly calcifying into the fixed isolationist habits with which I now comport
myself.
Now, I’m married.
My husband and I waited until we were married (although we
are technically still waiting on the Orange County Town Clerk to mail us our
marriage certificate) before we moved in together. We were excited. In anticipation of being roommates, Vin used
to send me lists of the “Top 100 Knives” and the “Top 15 Dishrag Brands” and
Gwyneth Paltrow’s pantry must-haves, and I used to send him screenshots of eclectic
Manhattan décor and “small apartment space savers” on Pinterest. The day after the wedding, we crossed the
threshold, transforming from bride and groom into forever roommates, and
celebrated with Old Fashioneds and takeout massaman curry.
Our life was perfect. Everything was pink and rosy and warm.
We were actually living the last five minutes of every Nora Ephron movie (even
the parts where they seem to be wearing makeup in the house).
It changed slightly, gradually. One afternoon, I put on a pair
of my oversized jean shorts and went to the kitchen for a snack. Vin was finishing some work on the desktop,
and so I put headphones in my phone, and began watching The Office from the middle of an episode I had seen so many times I
was reciting the lines in my head. I
decided to eat makeshift trail mix. As
Michael Scott tried to order a Gaydar online, I opened a Costco size bag of
walnuts and grabbed a handful, then took several Craisins from a big bag in another
drawer, and shoveled both into my mouth. I didn’t see the utility in dirtying a bowl
when I could just mix the ingredients naturally.
“What are you doing?”
I quickly turned to find Vin looking at me, watching his
once elegant bride walk around ashy-legged in ill-fitted shorts, with walnut
residue around her lips.
I continued chewing. “Nothing,” I said, hesitantly, as I
closed all the drawers and cabinets.
“Well, what are you watching? Why don’t you put it on the
big screen?”
I swallowed my homemade trail mix. The big screen. That wasn’t something I did. That wasn’t my thing.
“Well, Vin, I’m, I’m watching on my, um, on my phone.”
“Yea, I see that, but it’s more enjoyable on the big screen,
and then we can both watch it together.”
I of course could not be the wife who resisted her husband
when he wanted to share an experience with her, so I obliged. After we signed onto Netflix on that
inexplicably large computer screen, Vin said, “Actually, want to watch a new
show? Why don’t we watch something neither of us has seen?”
I choked on a Craisin that had stuck to my molar.
“But, well, I mean, it’s easier if I’m making a snack so I
don’t have to totally focus, and well…” I stammered something incomprehensible,
and Vin gave me a warm, loving hug, kissed my cheek, and suggested Transparent, the new show on Amazon Prime about the transgender father. I of
course could not be the liberal northeastern woman of color who resists
watching a show about queer folks, so I obliged.
Unfortunately, it was a fantastic show, and watching it on
the big screen was an absolute delight.
A few days later, something similar happened. I was cooking dinner while watching reruns of Friends on my cellphone, with my
headphones in. Vin walked over. “What
are you listening to?”
I reluctantly told him I was not listening to music, but
watching TV, and he eagerly put Friends
on the big screen, and then just as eagerly changed it to a new television
show. The desktop faces away from the
kitchen, so I couldn’t see, but was assured the new show was very good.
After dinner, I suggested we drink some wine on our balcony.
I took out two crackers and cut one
thick piece of cheese, and made myself a mini sandwich to take outside.
Vin followed. “Um, Rucha?
Since we’re living together now, I thought we should share with each other our
pet peeves and idiosyncrasies.”
I was thrilled. Perhaps
Vin had some secret single behavior that would neutralize mine. I pointed to the oversized jean shorts I was
wearing again, but before I could say anything, he said, “Come here, I want to
show you something.”
He led me to the kitchen, specifically to the crackers. “Can I show you how I put away chips and
crackers so they don’t become stale?” He
then proceeded to fold the snack bags in a very particular way, and suggested
we purchase chip clips.
“Oh, OK. I usually do that, I guess I forgot this time.” Vin still seemed tense, so I ordered chip
clips online before we finished our wine. “OK,” I said after I made the purchase, “Can I
tell you my pet peeves?”
“Sure.”
“I like to wear the same pair of oversized jean shorts in
the house and watch reruns of TV shows on my cellphone while I rummage for food
in the kitchen.”
Vin nodded, and I wondered whether he understood that “I
like” really meant “I need in order to feel whole.”
He then looked at the cheddar cheese I was holding. “I know you hate goat cheese, but I am going
to make you something made out of goat cheese that will blow your mind.”
And that’s when I realized it – I’m married. He was just
trying to make my life better. He was
performing the role of the perfect husband, seeking ways in which to make me
happy. He would hook up the surround
sound system so I didn’t have to use the earwax covered headphones I’d come to
love; he would toss my plebeian Shop & Stop brand cheese for one society
has determined merits superlative praise; he would expose me to new television
shows so that I wasn’t telling and retelling the same jokes like our fathers.
The days of my secret single behavior were over. I was not single; there were no more secrets.
“OK, Vin. Hey, you
want to watch Transparent on the
desktop?” I asked him, as I lovingly rubbed his arm, feeling warm and happy and
in love.
“Um, actually, I just need like twenty minutes to myself to
set all my fantasy line ups. Sorry, it’s
just something I need to do every week. It’s my thing.”
