Less is More

Hands 

The Mr. turns the rental car sharply to the right, pulling over to allow others to pass from the opposite direction. We continue swaying back and forth on the curvy road to Hana, Maui―a frightening road that frequently narrows to single-lane bridges.

I catch a brief reflection of myself in the passenger-side mirror. It’s a disheartening image of years gone. I don’t feel old; I feel retro, like vinyl records, slim, healthy, and energetic with a few scratches. I return my thoughts to the natural beauty around us.

The Mr. and I walked a half marathon this morning along Maui’s coast, celebrating our anniversary while proving the, 60 is the new 40, theory. I set a goal to run a half marathon in half the states, planning to complete the twenty-fifth on our anniversary in Hawaii. The Mr. agreed to walk this one with me, “No running.”

Walking turned out to be the better choice. As we crossed the finish line hand-in-hand, we witnessed an anniversary sunrise over the jeweled Pacific and a duo of dolphins celebrating life―a glorious beginning to another forty years.

The Mr. is aging delicately, growing cuter as his frontal lobe accumulates wisdom. He has kept his hair, although the once blond has merged with gray, creating a shining silver. Put the Mr. in a dark blue shirt, and his eyes shimmer like the waters of Honokohau.

We continue along the road, hearing exotic bird calls and waterfalls crashing near the road’s edge, leaving a fine mist-like intermittent fog. As we pass valleys punctuated with sporadic rays of sunlight bolting through the clouds, we ooh and aah, turning the land an Irish green.

The incentive for traveling such a long and dangerous road had been our only opportunity to see this unimaginable rainforest, a wisely protected land valued as Mother Earth or ‘Aina’ as the Hawaiians call her. I’m astonished by its beauty and the native Hawaiians’ unwavering love, protecting her long before most of us could imagine such a place existed.

Mr. keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, steady, focused, and responsible. Our years together, this morning’s run, this bending, and twisting road―anything worth doing can be challenging.

Forty years ago today, I walked down the aisle, tossing away tradition and reciting our vows in a tiny chapel on a California beach with a friend as our minister. Being the creative hippie type, I wore a hooded dress trimmed in white feathers. The soon-to-be husband was naturally good-looking with his long blond shag, a young, blond Mick Jagger in a denim suit.

We challenged his mother, who insisted we be married in a proper church with an appropriate minister. My mother argued the sour stepmother should not be seated in the front row as part of the family. The fathers were happy, his because we had liquor at the reception and mine knowing his daughter would be loved.

I displayed my first crumb of independence when I requested the word ‘obey’ be changed to ‘respect,’ immensely unsettling the wedding coordinator. I was surprisingly comfortable on our wedding day, stepping out of my introverted norm. A sense of calm and confidence slid into me the moment we arrived at the chapel, as if I had had a temporary brain transplant. As the doors opened, I knew this would be a perfect day despite the unseasonable January ninety degrees. My father’s supportive arm may have provided this unexpected calm.

A peek through the door showed a Mr. who appeared uncomfortable, his restless eyes darting around, looking for a place to hide. He had always been calm, portraying a relaxed, ‘hey-dude’ demeanor. Perhaps he had left his calm on the beach and his missing tie.

Our first date took years to materialize. He enjoys telling our grown daughters, “I walked in for an interview. Your mother asked for change from the receptionist, and I knew she was the one.”

For two years, I kept my eyes on the work instead of him. My determination to become a flight attendant on the airline with the cutest uniform commanded no man to get in my way, but my height did. Despite several hours of stretching, I remained a half inch shy of the required 5’3″. As I mourned the loss of world travel and pulled myself out from under my dreams, I noticed, “He’s kind of cute and funny. I like how he looks at me with those gorgeous bedroom eyes.”

I once asked him how he knew I was the one? He answered, “Sometimes you just know.”

Our story could have ended differently if he had also known I was idealistic and foolish, more interested in making a fashion statement than a financial statement. The Mr. married a woman without a molecule of confidence yet carrying an intense passion for life. I maintain my role as the sometimes annoying wife who wakes at six because mornings are fantastic and, through no fault of my own, can embarrass him as when I sobbed on a plane with two hundred strangers after reading a poem.

As my father predicted, the Mr. turned out to be a good guy by all measures. He works hard, is quiet, and loves our girls with every inch of his being. He has been patient and kind with our numerous pets, even the unruly ones who devoured dining chairs as if they were dog biscuits. He has little opinion about anything, thus being impossible to argue with. He has no hobbies, shows little emotion, and takes a lethargic approach to life. Still, he is always present, reliable, safe, and easy to please.

He resists using four-letter words, including ‘love.’ I delivered three healthy babies without a hug or an “I love you.” He has never shown the love I observe in others holding hands or snuggling or the gesture I’ve craved: a gentle hand placed on a woman’s back as they walk through a door as if saying, “I care about you and wouldn’t want you to slip.”

My mother’s crazy about him. Yet, several years ago, as he walked in from work, she asked, lifting the knife and her eyes from slicing watermelon, “Don’t you kiss your wife when you get home?”

He pretended his sudden peck on my cheek was as normal as Taco Tuesdays.

All of us long-timers ask ourselves why we’ve remained with one person while many of our friends have long ago traded in one love for another. No one is a perfect spouse. We all have kinks, flaws, and emotional junk that we carry into our relationships.

There’s an old joke about a farmer in Norway talking to his neighbor. He says, “Gosh Vidar, ya know, I love my wife so much I nearly told her.” This explains why Mr. He simply can’t tell me. I should have realized this truth with his proposal of marriage. While sitting in his childhood room, he asked, “Hey, do you want to get married?” 

Shocked by his lack of planning for this much-dreamt-about event, I nearly opted out, giving him an equally barren “Maybe.”

We were on our way to dinner. He could have waited until we got to the restaurant? Perhaps ordered a nice dessert, held my hands, looked into my eyes, and murmured something about me being the only one. No need for fireworks spelling out his love. A sincere “I love you. I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you” would have provided enough flutter for me to be confident he was the one.

Today, I watch his hands on the steering wheel, working their magic to ensure we don’t end our forty years driving off a cliff dangling from a banana tree. His hands aren’t pretty. Being one generation away from stepping off the boat from Norway, he has fair skin, burns, and never tans. Freckles lead to stubby fingers as if someone had cut the tips off. Being the ‘Mr. Fix It,’ never hire help variety, those hands often mimic sandpaper.

Exhausted after our early marathon, followed by our grip-the-armrest drive along the Kalupapa cliffs, we enjoy a celebratory dinner with whipped-to-perfection mashed potatoes, a too-pricey steak, Champagne, and a complimentary dessert. We wander back to our room, open the sliding glass door, and fall onto the bed―a bed the size of a Buick. The Mr. sighs as if he has landed on a cloud. We listen to the cadence created as waves collapse onto the shore and breathe deeply, consuming the salt air. His sandpapery fingers touch my arm. It’s intoxicating. 

Devotion trumps romance as he offers a slow graze along my cheek. As soft and quiet as an evening breeze after the day’s heat, like a baby’s first flutter in the womb. So light, I question whether I truly felt it. His fingers continue a slow, lingering stroke alongside my neck, radiating heat to the tips of my toes. Safe, secure, and yes, boring―he’s perfect. In the purest sense, his hands tell me all that I need to know. “Goodnight, I love you. I will always love you.”