I dug up this piece I had written two and a half years ago. I think at the time I was considering submitting it to the NY Times column, “Modern Love” but didn’t think it was of NY Times caliber. Instead it has been sitting on my hard drive. It’s funny, just the other day I yelled at Hal, “I want more poetry, less math!” He actually knew what I meant, but rolled his eyes nevertheless. He knows (and I know) his romantic gestures tend to be subtle but meaningful to me. And I look back at this and think how far we’ve come (he now says I love you) and how some things don’t change (he still snores).
March 12, 2007
I once read a woman describe her husband as wanting math, not poetry. Granted, this was written in a very different context than my own at the time as she was attempting to express how much she loved her husband despite the fact their marriage was disintegrating. I on the other hand was in a fairly young relationship that was still learning how to grow. Nevertheless, the statement “he wanted math not poetry” struck me since it seemed so fitting for my boyfriend, and for me who desired the antithesis, poetry not math.
The first time Hal and I slept together, and I literally mean slept, I found out quickly that he snores. Earlier that night, I had jokingly asked him if this was a possibility and he said that he didn’t think so as no one had ever informed him of this sleeping vice. Well, he did and still does. The next day, I believe I referred to the snoring as “cute” to my friends who warned me that the cute factor would wear off quite quickly, especially if it leads to sleep deprivation.
Being a relatively light sleeper when I’m in a bed other than my own, I did have an opportunity to learn of Hal’s other slumber idiosyncrasies beyond the vibrations of his soft palate. He twitches, marked by occasional sudden, jerky motions that tend to startle me awake if I’m not already. He also clenches his teeth making me wonder if he’s dreaming about biting into a succulent piece of sirloin.
He also sleeps with his back to me most of the time, which I initially interpreted to be a form of rejection (why do women torture themselves this much). But not wanting to be “that girl” just yet, I refrained from asking (pleading with him), ‘why do you always turn away from me when you sleep’, but I did finally question Hal as to whether he preferred sleeping on his right side. This seemed like a safe, non accusatory approach. To this he responded with the affirmative. So he really wasn’t making an effort to reject me during the night, but it was just a comfortable sleeping position. Phew.
Not too far into the relationship, I quickly arrived to the over analytical stage (hence the aforementioned questionable sleeping position) where I began to ponder his true feelings for me. When we first started dating, he used to say affectionately, “I like you”. And I liked hearing that since it was the only verbal confirmation of his feelings towards me. But what does that really mean? Then when hearing even those words ceased, I realized I didn’t know how he felt about me. That’s where I believe the math was introduced.
I could tell from the start that Hal was a low key guy who purposefully avoided complications in life. When it comes to relationships and matters of the heart, ‘math’ would seem to be the uncomplicated approach. There’s something straightforward about math and its formulaic nature which can pave the way for a rather rote simplicity. Math sits on the surface of the paper, laid out completely with no need to delve deeper into a meaning; it is not made to leave room for interpretation.
Hal liked to express what was on the surface. The most verbal affection I seemed to get out of him was, “I enjoyed having you over this weekend”, or, “it was nice having you here”. Low intensity, somewhat general statements that are of a positive nature but seem a bit banal, especially when as the receiver of these comments, you want POETRY. I wanted the stuff beneath the surface; the feelings.
I wasn’t looking for grand gestures or Shakespeare, no corny movie lines like ‘You complete me’; nothing like that. But I figured a little bit of poetry could set my increasingly obsessive mind at ease in a big way.
I decided to bring this to his attention, his preference for math and not poetry. I was determined to have the dreaded heart-to-heart one morning in early March when we were lying in bed. Then something happened while I was being little spoon to his big spoon. Hal entangled his body with mine, wrapping his limbs around, over and in between my own, making sure I was tightly pressed against him. At moments, he would lightly caress my arm or my hand, running his fingers over me with a gentle affection. His breathing was shallow as his chest moved peacefully up and down against my back. I’m sure many couples share this kind of closeness, but sharing it with Hal I began to realize that this could be his poetry. When he rubs my back or teasingly tickles me, or we breathe contentedly in syncopation, these sweet interplays could provide the assurance I was looking for without involving any words.
Of course the over analytical itch in me thinks, maybe I’m just making myself feel better by creating poetry that’s not really there, bedroom poetry. But why the hell shouldn’t I? We’re taught to avoid a false sense of reassurance, but being devoid of that kind of comfort can make you cranky and unhappy. I finally decided that it wasn’t about living in a self-proclaiming fantasy or searching and waiting for an ideal poetic moment that may never come. It was about enjoying the time you had with a person whose company you liked keeping, even if he does snore.
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