Commitment?

May 5 , 2000

I was riding in the elevator to the parking garage at my office at about 5:45 tonight. A man and a woman got on the elevator with me.

It wasn't until the doors closed and we'd started our descent that I realized that these two people, coworkers I assumed, were in fact a couple. They didn't look like a likely couple. She was about my height, about 5'5". The man was well over 6 feet. Closer to 6'5".

It's not that someone so profoundly tall can't be with a person of modest height. When I was in junior high school, my gym teacher, Mrs. Pepper, topped the chart at a maximum of 5'. Her husband, Dr. Pepper (I'm not making this up), was over 6'. They looked a little odd together.

There's the issue of body fits. When there's so profound a difference in height, things don't fit well together at "those moments". I mean, we all manage, and yes, tab A goes into slot B, or some variation on the same theme, but it's like a jigsaw puzzle almost. You can force mis-matched pieces to fit together but they won't lay nice and flat on the tabletop.

Anyway, I knew they were a couple by the conversation I overheard. "Where do you want to spend the night?" she asked. She went on to add that she had her bag in her trunk. I assume by this she was implying that if it was to be his place she was ready to go.

I don't know if he answered her question. I got off the elevator.

Well he may have answered her question. The mere asking of the question dragged me back in time. About 18 years. (OK, I'm shuddering as I type that....)

I've known Chuck for nearly 10 years. We've been married for just a couple of months short of five years. We were together about three years before that, living together for almost all of that time. Even when we didn't live together, though, there was never a debate as to where we would spend the night. My apartment. Always.

I spent the whole night at his place exactly one time. I was woken in the middle of the night by the sound of gunshots and people screaming in the streets. Never again.

For the two years before I was with Chuck I dated around. For one year before that I lived in Spain. I had a boyfriend. We always slept at his house.

Before Spain I had a boyfriend. We were together for about eight years. We lived together for the last three or four of those years. So, I guess the conversation brought me back to the four or so years before that. It would be about 1982-1986. (OK, my math may be off by a year or so but it was some time around then.)

That time in a relationship when things are new and exciting. Is it going to be my house or his? Traveling with an overnight bag in your car. Always. It's still new, or new-ish. You're committed, but not so committed that you're living together. A lot of pins and needles. All the time.

It's also a drag. Getting dressed at your house and realizing you left your black pumps at his house. Or being at his house and realizing that belt you need is back at home. Taking your car to the car wash and making sure there are no stray panties on the back seat. You're committed to each other but not married. Nothing is for sure. It could end almost as easily as it started.

About a thousand thoughts and emotions ran through me on that two minute ride down to my car. Part of me misses those feelings. The newness of it all. The uncertainty. The excitement.

But then there's the other part of me. The part of me that never wants to go on another first date as long as I live. The part of me that was happy I was going home to my husband and daughter. To my cats and dogs and suburban housewife lifestyle. To the commitment and love that I have with my husband.

To knowing that my panties aren't going to be in the back seat and that my black pumps are somewhere in my closet.

Until next time...