My Beloved, My Friend

Today, I turn the blog over to Herself.
_______________________________________________________

I have written an essay that has been brewing in my head ever since I went to my high school reunion. It's a part of the tapestry that is my personal history. I know you have heard all of the pieces at one time or another; I have finally woven them into a cohesive story, carefully and plainly.

It is a love story.

You can easily imagine what I was like when I was young: rather nerdy, fond of science and words, socially awkward. Like most teenage girls, I was interested in those elusive creatures so significantly absent from my all-girls' high school: BOYS. Some of the adult women I knew, including my mother, periodically informed me that all men (except perhaps my father) were pigs; nevertheless, I aspired to spend time with males of my species.

To this end, I participated in the theater projects that my school had with our brother school. Disliking any kind of spotlight, I usually worked props or costumes rather than being onstage myself. My senior year, I gathered up my courage, and auditioned for and obtained a part in the chorus for the spring musical. Nothing spectacular, but it enabled me to interact occasionally with the boys at the rehearsals.

The vast majority of the boys gave me no more than a cursory hello on occasion. Imagine my surprise and delight when the lead actor in the musical, "Bobby," began to pay me some attention. Ooo! I, who was nobody, attracting the notice of the sought-after Bobby. I was SPECIAL.

We dated for three weeks. He stopped by my house at the end of the third week, which was one week before the prom, to break up with me. Why? Because he and I had a clear-cut difference of opinion: he felt that three weeks was sufficient dating time for me to sleep with him, and I disagreed. It turned out I wasn't special after all; I was just what he had thought would be an easy lay.

His parting shot began with, Let me give you some advice. He then informed me that no guy would be interested in me in college unless I "put out," so I'd better think about doing so. Oh, and he'd already invited someone else to the prom, so he and I would not be going to the prom just as friends, either.

Dark and angry were my thoughts about Bobby. I vowed that I would prove him wrong when I went to college.

Much to my chagrin, it oftentimes appeared that Bobby was right. Guys who espoused Bobby's point of view were plentiful in college. Furthermore, while making female friends was difficult enough, making a male friend was a near impossibility. It wasn't until midway through my junior year that I made what I considered to be my first male friend.

I was dating someone else at the time, yet this guy still went out of his way to say hello, to ask how I was, to invite me to sit with him at meals on occasion, and to always be friendly to me. He talked to me, listened to me, and though he flirted with me on occasion, was always respectful of my personal boundaries. I was drawn to him.

He was an extremely rare man, one who understood that my acts of kindness towards him were neither an indication of my willingness to put out, nor an attempt to indebt him to me, but were gestures of caring that implied nothing else and required nothing specific in return. His company refreshed and renewed my soul. It was as though I had been buffeted by a strong wind for years, and his sheltering presence brought me quiet and tranquility at last.

He singlehandedly proved both Bobby and the naysaying women wrong: not all men were pigs.

The course of my friendship with him subsequently changed one August morning nearly twenty years ago, when we exchanged vows to become husband and wife. Had we not been friends first, though, we would not be where we are today. The foundation of our friendship has sustained and fortified our marriage during the most trying of times, and has brought increased joy during the happiest of times. Thank you, my Beloved, for extending the hand of friendship to me, so long ago.