No, no. I kid. My thoughts were much mushier than that, and even though we are being total big kids and GOING AWAY to celebrate our one year of not divorcing in spite of the graduate school vacuum, I will have something ready and waiting to be published on May 24.
That said, I felt that that celebratory post, with all of its LOVE and ROSES and BLUE SKIES EVERY DAY would make me a bit of a sham (or just an enormous liar) if I didn't share this one secret with you: it has not been a good month for the marriage, people. No indeed. Between coaching Varsity Softball, prepping students for exams (AP and otherwise), playing men's league baseball on the weekends, and serving on fancy committees, Preston's schedule has been packed to bursting. I have spent May (and the better part of April) frantically finishing the semester and writing, writing, writing. As in, I have spent so much time in the library over the last month, that finally over the weekend (after I finished my 2nd paper, bringing my grand page total of the semester to 76--but who's counting?), I looked out the window, and, I'm not even kidding, it hit me for the first time: spring...it's no longer in flux. It's here, and, to be quite honest, looking a lot like summer. I can't believe I missed it.
So, as much as I love the sense of purpose and movement that accompanies a schedule brimming with activity, I'm exhausted. I haven't seen Preston in a month. I've taken the dogs on short walks more often than I'd like to admit. Running has gone completely out the window, and only last week did we finally go to the grocery store together so that we could start cooking dinner together again. In sum, for the better part of May, we have been the opposite of model adults.
Over the weekend, our tension reached a fever pitch, and although I considered writing about it, I don't think I'm going to, because it's simply not important (or interesting, really). Here's all you need to know: on Saturday morning, thanks to a healthy amount of sleep deprivation and miscommunication on both sides, I was perhaps more angry at Preston than I have ever been. In the five minute drive from our apartment to the coffee shop where he was dropping me off on Saturday morning, I went from mildly cranky butIdon'twanttofinishmypaper to insulted, hurt, and infuriated (think Clytemnestra lite...REALLY lite, I promise). I slammed the car door (which I never do), didn't say 'Good-bye' or 'Love you' (which I always do), and as soon as I entered the coffee shop, I collapsed into Penelope's arms, heaving great, breathless sobs. Which was an awesome experience, not least because it means I am probably forevermore known at Milkboy in Ardmore as THAT GIRL WHO CRIES.
Preston and I talked later that afternoon, cleared up our miscommunication, offered hugs of apology, and promised to try harder next time. Which we will, I think. The rest of the weekend was solid, and brought us back to where I'd like us to be all of the time--we laughed a lot, really enjoyed each other, worked around the apartment--Preston and I are at our best, I think, when we're working together, and that partnership was palpable on Sunday. That said, we're not in the clear yet. I've still got one paper to finish, and Preston still has a few weeks of school left (during which time I am leaving for 10 days for a service trip in New Orleans), but we'll get through it. We will. And, regardless of what a not so good month it's been for the marriage (see: this post), and what a not so good year it's been for my sanity (see: every post with the label 'Graduate School'), on the whole, Preston and I have had a great first year of marriage, and that is something worth celebrating.
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