She always says I have an operatic voice and encourages me to sing, particularly in the shower, which adds a resonant quality unmatched in any other location. She adds that I sound best when the bathroom door is closed and she is listening from the other end of the house. I like that in a woman: always supportive, a straight shooter, no bull.
Love at first sight does happen. I know that from my own experience, but it took me about eight years to convince Marcia, my eventual wife, to cooperate.
My mother loved Marcia from the moment they met. It became Mom’s mission to get us together. After their first introduction, Mom grabbed my elbow and said: “There is nothing wrong with that woman!” Women often have that intuitive sense, which we men are slower to act on.
When I finally got around to wanting to commit, I needed a plan. But my perfectionist doubts got in the way, and I asked Mom many questions about the art of a perfect marriage.
“There is no such thing, get that idea out of your head, you’ll be disappointed if perfect is your expectation,” she said. “Marriage is not about perfection. At best marriage is like holding hands, a promise to one another that the two of you do not have to face the world alone.”
My perfectionist, romantic ineptitude was even demonstrated in France, where Marcia and I often took autumn vacations. Breezy days and fall colors, shuffling arm in arm from park bench to cafe or boulangerie — the memories remain clear in our hearts to this day.
We had lived together for eight years. If the romance of Paris couldn’t seal us together, I realized, nothing would. There could not be a better time and place for my proposal.
As if to foretell our vacation’s approaching end, sunny skies turned to pouring rain. With little time remaining, I searched in desperation for a romantic place to create this memory of our lifetime. The Eiffel Tower, a stroll along the Seine, inside the Louvre, perhaps Sainte Chappelle chapel? Time raced on and drizzle dampened every possible doorstep.
On our last day, Notre Dame Cathedral was the only remaining romantic setting, but its doors were locked. We pulled our collars tight against the weather and rested on a cold bench, clasping our clammy hands together, catching last glimpses of the city we both loved.
Like Mom, Marcia has always reprimanded me for being a perfectionist. “Good enough is good enough,” she says. Sitting on that wet bench, I thought, will it be Paris or a bench at home? Is this good enough?
I blurted out: “Would you marry me?”
She shivered in the cold and said: “Are you crazy? Are you serious?” I think our hearts both stopped for a moment. I realized that I should have asked that important question on one knee, with a shiny diamond ring, but the grass was wet and there was a busload of Japanese tourists standing around with cameras. A practice run would have helped my delivery, but sometimes you have to seize the moment.
After too long a silence, I realized she probably wished I was proposing coffee, to warm both hands and heart. I think we both had tears in our eyes. No, we probably were laughing at my ineptitude.
I call her “Cheeky.” She calls me “Toots.” I love her not just for who she is, but how she makes me feel when I am with her. She’s always supportive, a straight shooter, no bull. I like that in a woman.
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