One year ago today, after my 10AM yoga class, Jim surprised me at the studio with a giant Diet Dr. Pepper. Three and a half hours later in our backyard I wore a dress I'll never need again and became his wife. Then our family and best people ate lemon cake. Then we all went to the go-kart place for our inevitably unique “reception.” A kick-off that aptly indicated what we were in for.
We've been married one year. In my life, I've never been happier. I've never been more spoiled, more loved, or more in love. I still think that everything he does is adorable. As an example, Jim has a habit of leaving his chewing gum on his bedside table at night. When I zip past and snap it up to toss in the trash I think, “He’s so cute.” But I'm right. I mean, gawsh—
Mid-morning on Wednesday I took a call from a third-party company that Sanofi hired to do my exit interview. Was the company compliant? Would you work for Sanofi again? Why did you leave? Are you currently employed? And then the interviewer paused and said, “Do you mind my asking what you’re doing now?” “I left the industry,” I told him, “I’m teaching yoga.” He laughed and commented on the significant departure from my previous life. “Why did you choose that?” he asked. “It makes me happy.”
At that moment I was perched on the edge of the kitchen table facing the backyard. I had the sliding doors open a few inches because I’d just come in from checking on my herbs and before that I’d been taking our chubby puppies for their daily march. As I answered his questions I thought, “Sheesh. This is a good life.” I’m grateful to Jim. Jim is grateful to me. I thank him often for convincing me to quit. He thanks me often for quitting. And he’s glad that my time plugging away in the workforce granted me a perspective that can appreciate what it takes to support a family. I don't take what he does for granted. He makes success seem like a foregone conclusion and hard work look easy. But it isn’t and I know that and it makes me all the more thankful for what life my sweetheart enables.
I do house stuff—laundry, grocery shopping, morning tidying after everyone’s left, bringing in the milk, writing the check to the housekeeper—but I also get to do things beyond what I could when pedaling drugs. On Tuesday I had time to make a four-layer cake. (Ended up decent but not better than that. I’m learning.) Yesterday I took three yoga classes—one for strength, one for sanity, and one to check out a new local studio. In between I got a facial. I drink more water. I eat more vegetables. Guys, I’m just happier.
But here’s the thing—while my job got to a point where it was making me white-collar cross and that was beginning to bleed into my personal life, my personal life was already splendid. This husband I have can’t be real. When I get jealous of someone—like, oh they have such a great body or they are so pretty or smart or all the other shit we think—I scuttle my envy by thinking, Yeah, but they don’t have Jim. I actually think that. And it actually makes me feel better.
I’m so taken with this man's quirks. He leaves me love notes on 3x5 cards ‘cause they’re what’s handy. His favorite part of our Playboy Mansion experience was the technology of the hyper-cool MirMir photo booth; that’s the thing he can’t stop talking about. He sees cheese and crackers as an acceptable dinner. He always gets the same smoothie at Jamba juice but orders it as, “Give me whatever has the most pineapple in it.” He thinks water is disgusting. He falls asleep listening to The Office. And while everyone thinks my husband is funny, no one thinks Jim is funnier than Jim does.
He teaches me things. On a drive from Los Angeles to San Diego he taught me about handicapping and how sports betting works. He taught me the difference between welding and soldering. I now know a bit about what’s going on in my car when I turn on the A/C. I’ve learned exactly why Teslas are inconceivably bitchin’. And I’ve independently come to the conclusion that unions are, like, the third worse thing ever.
He is the most fun person I know. That anyone knows. His hobby is spoiling the hell out of his kids. (We’re trying to balance that out with foreign things like “discipline” and “responsibility.”) He’s down to go anywhere or do anything. He likes desserts enough that when we were in Vegas at Rose Rabbit Lie and he ordered the entire dessert menu so we could try everything. He took me to “Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me!” and then the following morning we went to breakfast with Bill Kurtis. He is constantly bringing home new remote-controlled gadgets and has lately been playing remote-controlled battling tanks with Benjamin. People, there’s a professional-grade ice shaver in the garage. He buys me feta cheese in bulk. We did the VIP tour in Disneyland.
He knows that the thing I want out of every trip we take is to find a yoga studio. (Right after our breakfast with Bill he dropped me off at the Funky Door while he went to a job site.) He came with me to class in Milan. A couple weeks ago he practiced with me at a Bikram studio in North Hollywood where the room’s temperature read 110 degrees Fahrenheit before class got started. He’s a guy who’s in it for the experience even when that experience is sweaty and inconvenient.
We have a trip to Hawaii with the kids planned for next month. If you know me much you know that Hawaii isn’t so much my bag. I went there for college. The novelty wore off. I loved my education but learned that island fever is real. Also, I’m the color of printer paper and avoid the sun like it’s cyanide. After Jim booked the plane tickets I told him, “I love you so much that I’ll go to Hawaii with you.” His reply: “Have you ever gone somewhere with me and not had fun?” Of course not. Naturally it’ll be a blast. Wherever he is is where I want to be. Always.
Also I’ll get to see his exquisite legs in shorts. I never get sick of that.