This past fall I was not-so-patiently waiting for an engagement ring from my beloved N. We’d been together for eleven years. E-L-E-V-E-N Y-E-A-R-S. I do not think I was being presumptuous in thinking I maybe deserved a little more commitment after all that.
One perfectly normal day in early October I was sitting on the couch with N, lazily watching TV and stroking his puffy beard.
I was never very fond of the puffy beard. he’s had it for years and I have been mourning the loss of his naked, youthful face ever since. But he was insistent and wouldn’t get rid of it.
So on this particular, normal, run of the mill October day as I was stroking it and letting my mind wander, my mouth decided to verbalize what was happening in my brain.
I hate when this happens.
I said “N, for our wedding you cannot have this beard. I just decided.”
He said nothing.
I said, “We are having a wedding, right?”
All was quiet.
“I don’t think I want to get married,” he said.
Two weeks later he moved out.
This past Wednesday, when he came over to hang out and watch the first Bruins playoff game, I opened the door and didn’t recognize him. The beard was gone.
“I can’t grow a proper playoff beard if I already have one to begin with. I had to start fresh.” Well, duh.
He looked SO YOUNG. His face was baby-butt smooth and faintly paler where the beard had been. I giggled like a school girl. He looked so weird.
After staring at his bare face all night I came to the conclusion that I liked him better WITH the beard.
If only I’d kept my mouth shut on that perfect fine day back in October, maybe things would have turned out differently. (Unlikely, but still, one has to wonder).