Honeymoon Phase

One thing with which I’ve had to come to grips about myself is that I’m vulnerable when convenient. The aspects of my life that I approach with vulnerability rarely have any real shame attached; I can often contort them into some clever quip or Instagram post. For example, I can be “vulnerable” about frustrations surrounding my broken foot, since the breakage was funny and parts of the recovery are funny and the whole thing is pretty much out of my control. In a different way, I can be vulnerable about the ongoing process of mourning my little brother who passed a year ago, since that, too, was an event very much out of my control, and one that no one will judge me for being vulnerable about.

My goal at the start of the summer was to create one blog post every two weeks. It was not a hard goal. Robby and I got married on June 1^st, and I planned to wait for about a week until our world calmed down. Then I would write.

But, of course, I didn’t, and Robby wondered what had happened to my goal. I had tons to write about. Our life had been one shock after another for three months straight. But I couldn’t bring myself to write a blog post about any of it because I wasn’t proud of these new developments in my life, and again, I only like being vulnerable when it makes me look good or when I can maintain a sense of pride. And our wedding—which I wanted to write about, and which was a more incredible day than either of us had imagined—was not something I could do justice while I was in such a negative headspace.

So, here goes: Robby got laid off, we’re rehoming our dog, I can’t walk, and we’re arguing more than we ever have.

Of course, we still have a way easier life than most people. Most of these challenges are temporary: Robby will find a job. I will walk again. But still, these all happened right around the start of our marriage, which is tough. We walked straight from the altar into a clusterfuck.

I’ll elaborate slightly, since lord knows I do not want to write—and you surely do not want to read—a think piece on each aspect of my little life that I find lacking: Robby’s former employer laid him off—completely unexpectedly—the Friday two weeks before we got married. He got a call at 10am, and that was that. Since I only get paid during the school year and then supplement Robby’s paychecks with light freelance work over the summer, this happened right as my final paycheck came in.

It also happened shortly after we decided to rehome Blueberry, our beautiful mastiff mix. While Blue has had nothing but 130 pounds of adoration for every human being he’s ever met, he’s grown increasingly aggressive toward other dogs as he’s gotten older, particularly other big dogs. While he’s never gone so far as to actually injure another animal, there have been several terrifying incidents that have left us feeling grateful things didn’t turn out differently. Robby and I, at a total loss for how to go about managing or rewiring this instinct, started to make Blue’s world smaller: no more dog park, no more beach, no more walks through dog-heavy parts of town. It wasn’t fair to Blue. We realized that the only responsible thing to do—for both Blue and the other dogs in our community—would be to try to rehome him with people who had the experience and resources to understand the root of the issue and work with him on how to be a healthier member of society. We hired a rehoming agency and planned to start working with them after the wedding.

These challenges are exacerbated by my sudden inability to handle them in the ways I usually would, which include working out or gardening or surfing or driving to the beach to get out of the house. Instead, I wake up, and Robby wakes up, and we sit. He applies for jobs, but doesn’t have anything to do, and I do some freelance work, but also don’t have anything to do. On top of that, it’s tough for me to get around our house, so I end up asking Robby to perform long series of very basic tasks for me. I go to the kitchen, bang around on my knee scooter until I’ve poured myself a bowl of cereal, scoot back to the couch, sit down, and then ask Robby to go get my cereal. Robby sighs, stops what he’s doing, and goes to get the bowl of cereal. Then I spill and he has to get a napkin, and then once he sits down again, the dryer buzzes and he has to go change the laundry. Then I ask him to bring me my hairbrush, since it’s in a particularly tough part of the house for me to get to, and then the dogs want to go outside. Our household does not require an abnormal amount of chores in order to function, but we’re used to splitting the burden.

So we argue. We sit in the same room all day—because most activities that I am able to do cost money, which we don’t have—and feel the same issues bubble up again and again. I resent him for not applying to more jobs; he resents me for not being patient with him while he figures out what he wants to do. He says that I really could do more around the house, and I say that while I’m able to do some things, they take an insane amount of time and effort compared to what they require of him, and besides, I often bump into things and hurt myself or cause general pandemonium. If I ask him to do something that I really can’t do, such as bathe a dog, and several days pass before he’s done it, my go-to is, “We both know I would do this if I could.” Which, though true, is a pretty shitty move. But these days, I feel shitty. I haven’t exercised in a month and a half, and I’m just now appreciating how much anger escapes when I run.

Today, I asked Robby what he thought we had done well over the past month. He immediately responded, “We’ve done a good job taking care of each other.”

And it’s true. I sometimes let our heightened bickering scare me into thinking we’ve stopped being good to one another; I’ll dwell on the two minutes we spent arguing and forget the fifty-eight we spent being kind. Over the past month, Robby has lifted me on and off the toilet more times than I can count, and I’ve held him close and told him that he’ll find a job, that he’ll figure out what he wants to do, that I’m proud of him. (I don’t hold him close while I’m on the toilet. I do it when I’m on the couch or something.)

My dad said that this summer will be good for Robby and me in the long run. I believe him. Our current circumstances haven’t created ugly tendencies within each of us; they’ve revealed them. Over the past five years, we’ve always been good about carrying the other person when they need it. This just happens to be the first time we’ve both needed to be carried.

Last week, we went to Whole Foods to restock our water. (Wilmington’s tap water has been contaminated by upriver chemical companies.) I waited in the car with my cast propped on the dashboard. Robby returned with the jugs of water and a huge bundle of lilies. I beamed. He set them in my lap.

“They looked like you,” he said.

A couple nights ago, my dad texted both Robby and me. He said, “Sup.” This is a very Bob Bridges thing to do. Robby and I had had another rough, boring day, and I happened to be in a text conversation with the fantastic people who are currently watching Blue and would like to adopt him. They sent me a picture of the twin bed they bought for him. I showed it to Robby, and we felt relief and sadness wash over us. The weight of the past month settled on our shoulders.

Robby opened the text from my dad and sent back a gif of a cartoon character somberly dragging a stick through a puddle. I gave it a thumbs up. My dad replied instantly. “Hang in there. I know you will both take great care of each other.”