Sweet Blissful Oblivion

(had to start the new blog out with a classic ditty about my lovely lady)

            Admittedly, Liz and I have somewhat of an unusual relationship.  Yes, she is nineteen years my senior.  Yes, in many ways we are exact opposites.  I never used to agree with the philosophy of opposites attracting, but then, her very presence is soothing in a way that can only be explained using reverse psychology.  So, who knows.

           

            I like the peace and quiet.  I once went six days without seeing or speaking a word outloud to anyone.  It was great.  Whereas Liz… well, Liz talks a lot.  She likes to talk.  She loves it, in fact.  One might go so far as to say that talking is her favorite.

            She doesn’t necessarily need anyone to listen, she will talk away regardless, and while she prefers an audience with which to interact, I think she pretty much covers the same staggering array of topics whether anyone is listening or not.

            God bless her, she knows I love her dearly, but the truth is: she has the attention span of a hamster.  I know this to be true because we have a hamster and sometimes when I am in the same room with the two of them I keep a seasoned eye on each one and compare.  After many weeks of close study, I am convinced that the two are on an exact parallel.  She will change subject at the same exact moment that the hamster changes direction.  It’s spooky, sometimes.

            She also has one of the worst memories I have ever had the dumbfounded experience of negotitating in conversation.  A lot of the time it doesn’t matter if you are paying attention or not ‘cause she is bound to repeat herself within a few minutes.  And she is sober.  Sometimes I think if the poor woman ever got Alzheimer’s I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference for awhile.  Not until it got really bad.  Frowny face.

            Sometimes I try really hard to pay attention just for the challenge.  She is nineteen years my senior and I still have to break out the baseball cleats and do some warmup stretches beforehand if I want to keep up with her.  Trying to follow along with Liz in a conversation is kind of like trying to gauge distance in the desert. 

            You strap on the cleats and the first couple of miles you’re thinking you got a good thing going, but it isn’t long before you start looking around and searching for familiar landmarks and wondering to yourself, “What in the wide world of sports did I get myself into?”

            You start digging your cleats in the sand, you’re practically running in place, the sun is beating down, your breathing becomes labored, you’re pouring sweat, as the hamster (seemingly without effort) scampers away and disappears in the heat waves in the distance.

            Through triumph and failure alike (trial and error) I have accepted the foregone conclusion that it is better for my health and longevity if I do not try to follow along.  Which may sound mean, but at least I’m honest about it.  She’ll be talking away and I’ll throw in a quick, “You know I’m not listening, right?” and she knows it.  She makes sure to clap her hands or throw a brick or something if it is important.  To make sure I’m listening.

            I know, I know.  It may sound mean, but these are the reasons we get along as well as we do.  Honestly.  As a writer and a big fan of stream-of-thought narratives, it’s almost like Liz and my writing have more in common than Liz and the writer. 

            They meander in tandem stride, they are selectively productive, they are both repetitive, they both seem kind of lost but content with that (for the most part).  She has an absolute flagrant disregard for the boundaries of a “normal” conversation.  She goes wherever she wants.  Or wherever she feels herself led.  I have a profound respect for that. 

            Don’t get me wrong, we have some fantastic conversations.  We spend a great deal of our time together going, “Huh?” and “What did you say?” and “I don’t understand what you are talking about!”  But then, so do most couples, I think.  We’re just more literal and immediate about it.

            Men and women were never meant to understand each other completely.  If women understood men completely they would invent machines to make the babies and spare themselves the hassle of putting up with us, and all they would ever need us for is to move heavy stuff and kill spiders.  I don’t want that.  I kind of like having ol’ Lizzie Lou around.  She does make me laugh.

            There’s nothing wrong with living in sweet blissful oblivion. 

            Here’s to all the sparkling conversation it provides.