Of course I’m not going camping. Thank you for suggesting it with a straight face, as if deep in your bones you feel it’s a possibility. I’m impressed by your sense of adventure when you want to trudge through a swamp, but when you ask me to go with you, I wonder, “Do you even know me?”
I do like those tin plates people take camping — the ones like school lunch trays, with depressions and walls to keep different foods from touching. I like the rustle of wind in the trees, the feel of cool grass on bare feet, and the smell of pine. But we both know, or we both should know, my interest in camping is only theoretical and my days of sleeping in a bag are over.
You chaperoned a backyard tween sleepover and slept outside so the kids would feel safe. It was August and you had to pull the cord on your sleeping bag so tight it left only a small breathing hole for your nose to poke through. Usually mosquitos bite me and ignore you, but even you needed protection from bugs that night. When I conjure the image of kids free to laugh and slumber because you were on guard, happy to lay in the yard bundled against predators, my heart swells.
I don’t know how you spend the time you do in Goodwill, reading the title of every book on the shelves and alphabetizing volumes by author when the staff hasn’t bothered. You celebrate when the book you want has a price sticker matching the day’s 50% off color. Sometimes you send me pictures of stuff we don’t need, but it’s half off, and you ask me if I want it. And I ask you, “Do you even know me?”
When I said I wanted white dinner plates, you found cool ceramic dishes at Goodwill and you played the long game. You searched for months and found enough matching plates for a party. When you brought home a taped-up stack and pointed out the discount, you asked if I wanted matching bowls, too. I said, “Of course. Do you even know me?”
I startled both of us out of a sound sleep when I yelled, “Chimney fire!” You bolted from bed and ran, naked, onto the frosted lawn to scan for flames. You stood in the frigid night air cupping your twig and berries in one hand and holding your cellphone in the other in case we needed 911. When I called you to come in before frostbite set in, you trotted past me to look for hot spots in the attic. When nothing was amiss, you asked, “What made you think we had a fire?”
I talk in my sleep, so I said, “Thank you for protecting us, and do you even know me?”
When we took care of my parents’ dog and it was time for bed, the dog looked with hope at the stairs and you told both of us, “No dogs in the bed.” We looked at you, silent and confused, and didn’t even have to ask, “Do you even know me?” before you sighed and invited the waiting dog to follow us. She slept all night with her head on your leg.
When I felt world-weary beyond the medicinal powers of a glass of wine, time with friends, or a rom-com, you put on an 8-foot inflatable chicken costume and walked around with a sign telling everyone exactly why you crossed the road.
When the fan that keeps my dinosaur inflated broke, you took it apart to diagnose and fix the problem. The winter crud has hit our house, and you coughed and hacked as you worked. For you, downtime would come at some other time, because you wanted to make sure my joy could rise in my purple blob.
I watched you work and asked if the fix would hold. I know your patience was thin, but you answered without rolling your weary eyes. Then I got you an urgent care appointment, a Mucinex, and another pillow, and left you to fall asleep to one of those tense dramas that enthralls you and stresses me.
As I sit in another room finishing this column, I hear the show’s sound effects and scene-setting music. I’m not sure how knowable people are, even to themselves. If Netflix series are a model, we’re all mysterious and we require a soundtrack to broadcast our emotional state and intentions.
Having a personal soundtrack play over my big moments is on my wish list, but I don’t know how to pull it off. I do know, even when you don’t know me, you know enough.
Wishing all a happy Valentine’s Day. I hope when February begins to feel like the longest month of the year, you have someone who gives you their time and care in every moment — especially when they don’t even know you.
