We Dance

“sssyfish roffly.” My Queen said over our third bottle of wine.

I want to tell you what that means, but I’m happy to remember the words themselves. She followed that up with something about “Jacuzzi “and “champagne.” That I’m sure of. I nodded and stumbled into my swim trunks, pulling them up, doing my uncoordinated jig.

“Are you going to take off your pants first?”

“Uhm, yeah. I was just trying them on to see if they fit.” There’s no lie like a drunken lie.

This was our anniversary weekend. One year ago, on Memorial weekend, we met in Napa Valley. This year, we opted for the other wine country: Temecula. It’s closer, it’s cheaper, and gosh darn it people like it.

We wanted to.

There was one question keeping us uncertain though: Could we regain the Napa Magic in its cheaper cousin? We both look back at the time we spent up north with fond remembrance. Would this weekend be flawed Zirconia to our diamond dreams? We both turn to the OCD side even when we’re drinking.

“If you’re gonna spill the wine could you please hit the napkin?”

“The force is strong in this one…”

Our big dread is this: we’re not high school kids riding the Big Giddy of infatuation. We’re skeptical adults with nubby-scarred hands. We’ve both touched the hot stove too many times. Our flesh is calloused and insensitive; what’s imperfect now, will always be imperfect. What’s perfect now, will annoy the hell of the other person in six months. What’s left?

“We’ll always have Napa.”

Yeah, thanks Monty Hall, but I don’t want the consolation prize. I want the real thing. I want yesterday, today, tomorrow. This puts me in the divorced man’s paradox. Would I know the real thing if it bit me in the ass? I’d like to think so, at least before the venom kicked in. But I’ve been married. Didn’t I the real thing sink its fangs into me then?

If I answer no, then what makes me believe I can tell the difference this time?

If I answer yes, then why couldn’t I keep it together last time? Am I a better person now?

To make matters worse, I know that the Pirate Queen is asking herself the same question. We’re plodding the insecurity waltz. 1,2,3,4 draw close…2,3,4 push away, 2,3,4…

The real problem is there are no answers here. We can dance around this until we’re dizzy. We’re turning mental rings as insubstantial as the ones at the bottom of the champagne bottle. We need to pick a course and move forward. Otherwise everything will evaporate, leaving us with nothing more than a bitter circle stain of what never was.

The Pirate Queen and I, we’re not perfect. We’re bent. We’re bruised. We’re bedraggled, and that was before the alcohol. We’ve had our good times, we’ve had our bad times. It doesn’t matter if it’s Napa, Temecula, or Omaha: as long as we stay together we will have more of both.

“Why do you love me?” She asks after our swim.

All the reasons rush forward, muddling in my mouth before they can escape, “mmmghma.” Yep. That says it all.

She smiles. “Me too.”

I reach out and take her hand. Even in our insecurity, we understand each other. To me that says a lot. Last year when we met, we had nothing. We were two souls meeting each other for the first time. This time we have a year of companionship. The answer to my divorced man’s paradox is that the Pirate Queen good outweighs the bad. Enduring her worst is preferable to imagining life without her good.

That makes this anniversary even better than the last. Now if I can just get these wet swim trunks down from around my pool drenched pants.