Contrast

As I think I mentioned late last week, I was out of town this past weekend, so I didn't get a chance to post. That said, yesterday was the six-month mark of my marriage to the Mister, and that deserves at least a few words.

When discussing the making of serious decisions -- particularly with respect to romance -- I've heard many people waiting for a sign. Biblical days being long since past, we rarely get anything as obvious as a burning bush (or the modern-day equivalent, I suppose, of neon flashing lights) to tell us "Do this," or "Don't do that," "Marry him," or "Run away screaming from his suggestion that you move in together." I, for one, never expected it.

But, raised on Hollywood, as so many of my generation were, I didn't think it unreasonable to wish for, hope for, dare I say it, even expect, pivotal, unexpected, and relationship-affirming moments like that in the end of that chick-flick masterpiece, Pretty Woman. Some moment, some event to help me say "It's now, now" and to tell me which decision to make, or to confirm that I had made the right decision about something.

Last night reminded me how silly that all is.

Not to malign those people who do luck out and have banner moments. Those are awesome and not to be sneezed at. I'd love a few. Heck, I think I've had a few in my life.

But it's those moments that arrive when I contrast how content I am with how complicated others' lives can be that I realize how good I really have it.

I've lived in the same apartment for 2.5 years now, with the same next door neighbor for all of that time. She's beautiful, or at least, the bones are there. She is short, petite, blond-haired, blue-eyed, with what some of my male friends would call a "tight little body." She has a husky, Tara Reidish voice. I can see the guys having gone crazy for her a few years back. She's my age, give or take -- early 30s or late 20s. The thing is, she looks all used up -- like she's been on one too many benders. It's a pity. (Don't even get me started on the fact that she's an elementary schoolteacher; I shudder for the future.)

My next door neighbor has been fodder for some amusement but only passing concern. She's
never disruptive in terms of having fights in the hallways, or vomiting on my doorstep. She's a loud talker, prone to standing next to the too-thin apartment door while chatting on the phone, lamenting her latest love affair, or fighting with her folks, or begging a soon-to-be-ex-beau not to leave. But since that was the most trouble she'd given me, I never had cause to care.

Last night, at about quarter to eleven, our doorman called the Mister, advised us that her father (who lived in a suburb 30+ minutes away) had called him, told him that he and our neighbor had had a fight, and had threatened to take an overdose of sleeping pills. Our doorman further explained that our neighbor's mother had died just a month ago after accidentally combining alcohol and cold medicine, or something to that effect.

Drama ensued. The NYPD, EMS, and FDNY all arrived. They broke open her door with a crowbar, or started to before someone showed up with a key (I'm not sure which), and stayed with her for about half an hour, until her father showed up. It was so much sadder than it was funny.

The mister and I had gone up to Providence and Newport, but, for whatever reason (he was under the weather, we were both tired, the programming of the events on campus had changed, etc.) the weekend had lost some of its magic. Even so, en route home last night, we both reaffirmed how good we have it. But that didn't really hit home until last night's events involving our neighbor.

Juxtaposed with her life, I realize -- in the same way that, when stricken with a cold, I lament to my stuffy-nosed self "I'll never again take for granted how good I have it when I'm healthy" -- that, although it's not without its complications, my relationship with the Mister is relatively drama free. We're happy with each other. We're happy together. That's sign enough for me.