The Joy of Becoming an Old Couple

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment. It might have been a year ago. Could have been a few months ago. Maybe it was Thursday night or Friday night.

No matter when it happened, it's true: Bridget and I are officially an old couple.

Why did I call out Thursday night? Bridget and I went to go see The Head and The Heart in Boston on Thursday. (You may not know the band, but they are definitely worth checking out at the link above.) It was, in a word, a young crowd. As we waited in line outside The Royale, it was abundantly clear that we were two of the few people that could drink during the show. We may also have been two of the few people born before 1990. This was, for a moment, depressing.

Why did I mention Friday night? After getting home from a long week of work, where were Bridget and I at 7 p.m. on Friday? A bar? A lively Cambridge restaurant? On the road for a weekend of craziness and debauchery? No. Try napping in bed with Oscar so we could make it out to a friend's place for a couple hours later. Again, for a split second, this was depressing.

Then at work this week, I was chatting with a few of my colleagues. One, an intern from Northeastern, talked about how she'd gone out at midnight the weekend before. Out at midnight? Don't you mean home by 11:30? Other younger, cooler colleagues nodded their heads and talked about how Boston bars should serve alcohol until 2 a.m. and close at 3, rather than just closing up shop at 2. What's the difference? I was in bed three hours ago anyway! De - press - ing.

Now, people who know me are probably not surprised by any of this. In fact, many of them have probably stopped reading, thinking, "Well, no shit, Briddon. You've always been an old man." And, to a degree, it's true. I've always believed those sage words from Ben Franklin: "Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." In short, I'd rather be up at 6 a.m. than midnight.

Bridget doesn't necessarily subscribe to this same magazine of life. When I first met her, she was a bit of a rabble-rouser. She stayed out late, went out for dinner, like, three times a week (!), and slept in on weekend mornings. Heck, I think she even went dancing every once in a while. Dancing!

The casual observer, then, might say that I changed Bridget, that I aged her. But I don't think this is completely true. I think, and here's the drum roll to the big line, couples make each other old. I also think this is a good thing. It's not even a little bit depressing.

Instead of going out every chance we get, we pick and choose our spots and make them count. We don't typically deal with hangovers, which means we fill our weekend days with stuff like working out, early mornings at Fresh Pond, and nice dinners. And, to be honest, it's way more fun than going out until 2 a.m. It makes us feel more accomplished, more intelligent, and healthier. It makes us feel, well, better.

Plus, be honest: Who has the energy to be young anymore? It sounds exhausting ...

Oscar the Incorrigible

This past weekend, our furry friend Oscar turned 6. We celebrated with kindling in Harvard Yard (our favorite) and lots of treats (Oscar's favorite). 

We are definitely one of those childless couples who dote on our dog. Oscar is our fur baby, and I'm not going to lie, we are crazy about him. We probably spend 75% of our time talking to him, or about him, or wondering what he's up to. 

The funny thing is, despite his current status as dog lover, when Oscar and I first met Mike he didn't even like dogs. And he especially didn't know what to make of Oscar. Oscar tried to play nice and bring his rope toy to Mike for him to throw, but Mike didn't really appreciate the slobbery, stinky piece of rope being repeatedly dropped on his lap. And when Oscar wanted to play tug, Mike got a little nervous (there may have been a slight nip based entirely on a misunderstanding about who was tugging first). He wasn't sure how to talk to Oscar, how to give him commands that he would actually understand. Like on one of our first trips to Fresh Pond, Mike couldn't understand why Oscar wasn't following his instructions to,"Stay Right!", or "Go Left! Left!" And picking up dog poop? Well, let's just say that was way beyond his comfort zone. 

Luckily, Oscar has a way of growing on people. Maybe its the way he tilts his head when he's trying real hard to understand what you're saying. Or it could be the way his little stump of a tail wags furiously when he's happy. Or maybe it's just that he's sweet, and he's cuddly, and he makes you feel loved. 

Whatever the reason, when I left for a trip to Australia, Mike and Oscar truly bonded. And seeing that bond, well, it made me happier than I ever expected. Because when I started dating Mike, it was the first time in my life that I was consciously looking for a partner, a husband, and a father to my future children. He had proved himself to be an amazing boyfriend, but seeing him take care of Oscar made me realize what an incredible father he would be one day. He was responsible. He was loving. He was sensitive to all of Oscar's needs. And most telling of all, he was incredibly patient with him. 

You see, what I failed to mention is that Oscar, while sweet and amazing and wonderful, is also a bit of a head case. With us, in the apartment, he is quiet as a mouse. But take him on a walk and run into another dog, and, well, he loses it. Oscar is scared of dogs and so he completely flips out when he sees them. He has the bark of dog 5 times his size. Think Cujo. I expected Mike to become frustrated and angry with our ill-behaved pup. But instead, he had infinite patience. 

I was already in love. But it was Oscar who made me realize Mike was "the one".

The Birth of the Family Meeting

Okay, the picture is somewhat deceiving. We don't have little monkeys yet. Also, we're not monkeys. But this little clan huddling together -- mostly likely talking about the Affordable Care Act or the taste of flies -- made me think of our new family meeting.

You might be asking: Why the hell do you guys have a family meeting? Can't you just, like, talk like normal people?

The answer: First off, relax. There's no need for profanity or attitude. We're all friends here. The truth is Bridget and I talk all the time, but a week ago, we started to realize we weren't really getting anywhere with some of our bigger conversations -- stuff like vacation destinations, money, and kids. Over and over, we'd just rehash the same conversation about "You know, we should do this. No, wait. We should go here!" We were like a drunk windsock with ADD. Perhaps you and your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/significant other do the same thing.

Thus, we came up with the family meeting.

The five rules are simple:
1. Each family meeting must be planned in advance.
2. Each family meeting must be an actual meeting at a table.
3. Each family meeting can focus on only one topic.
4. Each family meeting must not exceed 30 minutes.
5. Each family meeting must have an outcome.

Before our first family meeting, we weren't sure all this was such a good idea. Meetings, traditionally, particularly in a workplace setting, are a giant waste of time. They take too long. There are too many of them. They aren't productive. In fact, there's even a book called Death by Meeting. 

But so far, in three meetings, we've been fruitful. We've decided where and how to invest our money in the next few months, where to travel this fall (not Hawaii -- booo!), and when to start trying to have kids. (Oddly, the middle debate was the most heated.)

The meetings haven't been perfect, but we've done our best to stick to the rules. And, more importantly, they've helped us communicate more effectively -- especially about little monkeys.

BSHLB - 13.1 Miles to Go

I thought that it may be time to give an update on BSHLB (Best Shape of Her Life Bridget).

Well, luckily, you haven't missed much. I've been slowly trying to cut down on my ice cream intake (freeze-pops are healthy, right?) and increase the amount of veggies that I've been consuming (this was not difficult as previous consumption was at approximately zero). I've also started to move more. As in, actually working out.

Working out is a bit of a chore for me. Because I am, by nature, a woman of leisure. I've always thought I was born in the wrong era. I would be much better suited for Victorian sensibilities.

Strolling? Absolutely. I love a good stroll. Croquet anyone? Sure thing. Lawn tennis? Right up my alley. And all this while wearing a bustle and breaking for tea and small sandwiches every 20 minutes. Pure heaven.

Unfortunately, this is not the place in time in which I've found myself. Instead of strapping on ye olde corset, I'm expected to exert myself physically to maintain my girlish figure. This is unfortunate. Not only for me, but for all those that must witness my very pathetic attempts at physical activity. I am, in all athletic endeavors, a total spaz.

So this is why I turn to running as my go-to mode of fitness. I can put one foot in front of the other. I can do this without any scary equipment or balls flying at me. And I can do this at my own pace... i.e. extremely, almost incomprehensibly slowly. In fact, at my speed, I guess you don't call it running. You call it jogging. I believe it is jogging or yogging. It might be a soft "J". I'm not sure.

In order to ensure I continue my adventures in jogging, I signed up for the BAA Half Marathon today. And I have a running plan to prepare my withered muscles for the 13.1 miles in October. With one week down, I'm feeling pretty good about things. And the best part? I've somehow convinced Mike to sign up with me. So if things go really badly on that fateful day in October, he can carry me over the finish line.

The Photo-to-Canvas Era

Like most couples, Bridget and I love Groupon. Or LivingSocial. Or Gilt. Or whatever the hell new one just came out 40 seconds ago. These online coupons provide us with great deals to new restaurants, innovative (and sometimes stupid) products, and vacations. What's not to love, right?

Well, to Bridget's chagrin, these online coupons also love to offer photo-to-canvas deals. And for whatever reason, I absolutely love them.

What is a photo-to-canvas deal? It's simple, really. You pay a set amount (usually $40-$50), send in one of your favorite photos, and get a fantastic piece of wall art a couple weeks later. I think it's fantastic, anyway. And as you can see from this picture, I sort of went on a bender recently:

In order, from left to right, that's Cape Cod, California, and Maine. Also, there's two more in the bedroom.

So, to say I like these things is an understatement. On a related note, to say I don't know the first thing about design or interior decoration is an understatement. I know way, way less than the first thing. If it were up to me, we'd paint the walls Syracuse orange, hang up sports jerseys and pennants, and put collapsible basketball hoops on every door. (So many dunks!)

But it's not up to me. Mostly, it's up to her because I don't really care all that much -- so long as we don't have pink things everywhere. And to further get across the point that it's not up to me, I was recently given a stern talking to by Mrs. Briddon: "Okay, hun. That's enough. We're done with these canvas things."

The nerve, right? Right? And that's why I've taken this picture and written this post. Who knows how long the wall will look like it does above? (My guess is not all that long ...) But I'll always have a record of it -- and fond memories of the Photo-to-Canvas Era.

License to Wed ...

No, this is not a post about that likely insufferable movie (I've never seen it) starring Mandy Moore and the dude from The Office. This is about the need to rethink the wedding licensing process. Frankly, it stinks.

Let me take a quick step back and explain how I stumbled on this topic. I was golfing (very, very slowly) a couple weeks ago behind someone who had never stepped on a course before. This was obvious because she (not being sexist; I've seen men do it, too) took too long to swing and, when she connected, the ball sputtered 20 feet to her right. On the ground. Into the woods. I remarked to my friend, Mike, "This is crap. You should need a damn license. You should be able to hit a ball 75 yards five out of 10 times to earn a license and get on a real course." (I'm actually quite serious about this.)

And, in between painstakingly slow shots, it got me thinking ... you need a license to drive, a license to operate heavy machinery, and a license to get married. The first two require you to show off some skills before you get the rubber stamp. Getting a marriage license, on the other hand, requires about $40 and putting your hand in the air while promising that the person by your side isn't a blood relative. Not so tough. Unless you live in the South. (Kidding, kidding. But not really ...)

So, I have an idea: I'm suggesting five tasks couples need to complete before they get the piece of paper that allows them to say, "I do." Here goes:

1. Couples should know each other's middle names. Think about it. Other than your family (and sometimes including your family), how many middle names do you know? Your college roommate? The person you sit next to at work? Carly Rae Jepsen? (Shoot, bad example ...)

2. Couples should be stuck together in an elevator for an hour. Can you really stand each other? Let's find out.

3. Each partner should have to cook one meal, including dessert. Everyone should cook. It's only fair.

4. Couples should shovel snow together at least once. The reason? See No. 3.

5. Each partner should be sick in bed for at least two days. This is the big one. I, for one, am a giant, whiny, pain in the ass when I'm not feeling well. I don't want to leave the house. I don't like anyone. And I'm 100% sure that I'll never feel better again.

Should there be more tasks? Probably. But at least these five can get us started. Maybe they can even vary by state. (The south would come up with some hilarious ones!) Either way, I'm quite certain these five tasks will tell you more about your future mate than admitting she (or he) isn't your sibling.

Of Stationary Entertainers and Maternity Leave

So I was on the internet this evening, doing some innocent research about how much infant childcare is (Note: I am not pregnant. Really. Not. Pregnant.), and I almost spit out my expensive barista-prepared beverage when I looked at some going rates in Cambridge.

$2500 a month? Every month? How do people afford this? And what if, god forbid, you want more than one child? OR, what if you want to have a child and still be able to pay your rent? How do people DO this? I all of the sudden had the urge to run around to every adult with a small child and ask them...SERIOUSLY, HOW? HOW do you DO this? 

Because it isn’t just the $2500/month in childcare. There is also all the other “stuff” that you have to buy so you are properly equipped to have a child. I uncovered a handy baby checklist on a helpful website.

There are over 150 "must-have" items on this list. One hundred and fifty.  Including 5 different strollers: Travel system, traditional stroller, lightweight stroller, all-terrain stroller, and double stroller. Not to mention the stroller accessories! Rain cover, weather protection boot, stroller sunshade, netting, organizer, cup holder, snack holder, and of course, stroller toys (are these different from regular toys? How? Why?!). Why does a baby need 6 different types of entertainers/swings? What exactly is a “stationary entertainer”? Why do a need both a full-size swing AND a travel swing?

And don’t even get me started on maternity leave. Did you know that of 178 countries worldwide, all guarantee some type of paid maternity leave EXCEPT the United States, Swaziland, and Papua New Guinea?

I repeat: US. Swaziland. Papua New Guinea.

And look at this graphic:

How is this ok? Instead of the generous leave afforded to women in other countries so they can, you know, nurse and bond with their infants, in the US we have the privilege of taking 12 weeks - unpaid - leave and not losing our jobs. I suddenly had the urge to retreat to my old stomping grounds of Montreal (50 weeks, eh?).

OK. So I added it up. 12 weeks with no paycheck. $2500/month in childcare expenses when I go back to work. Approximately $2.3 million dollars in multiple strollers and stroller accessories. I can’t even start thinking about what college will cost in 2032. Panic sets in. I turn to Mike. I let him know that we can no longer entertain the idea of having children because it is just too damn expensive. His response?

"Baby, we will be just fine. I believe in us."

And that, of course, is the correct response. We will be just fine. We will figure out a way to do it. Millions of people do. And I have no doubt that all the expense and the sacrifice will be totally worth it when we do decide to have that little money pit bundle of joy.

In the meantime, I've put myself on a fiscal diet. More about that in a later post.

But to all those moms and dads out there... For reals, how do you do it? And do you think the rising cost of raising a child is sustainable?

Kindling in Harvard Yard, or How We Really Met

Earlier this week, on the 4th, in fact, I was chatting with Bridget's good friend, Laura. We sat out on our deck, sipped beer, listened to Bruce Springsteen (well, we should have been) and talked about meeting and falling in love. Not us, of course. Just the idea. (Bridget was inside booking our latest vacation.)

Laura told me the story about her parents and how they fell in love. In a nutshell (and forgive me if I'm butchering this at all, Laura), her parents, both starry-eyed singles at the time, were both on a cruise somewhere in Europe. It was the last night of the trip and, as luck would have it, there was one bottle of champagne left on the ship. They both reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, "Well, we might as well drink this together." A  Transatlantic, long distance relationship ensued and decades later, they are still together today. Wonderful, right? Sweet, wholesome, and warm.

It got me thinking about the beginnings of me and Bridget and, well, it's not very good. It's actually fairly clunky. This stinks because people -- and our children will, at some point -- ask, "How did you guys meet?"And up to this point, we tell some variation of this:

Bridget and I worked together, but didn't really know each other. Then she worked remotely for a bit, got a new job, and lived in Baltimore for a few years. So you could say, we'd heard of each other, but that was it. In 2010, we started chatting at our mutual friend Kate's birthday party in Salem and realized we got along pretty well. Then, taking full advantage of the romance of technology, we started Facebook chatting, texting, and dating. Romantic, right? Not so much. Clunky. Pretty lame paragraph if you ask me.

And I've decided it's time to officially change it. To what, you ask? To Kindling in Harvard Yard!

As we started dating in the summer of 2010, we realized we both liked to be outside and we both liked to read. Our weekend afternoons quickly became filled with slow, slightly awkward walks down Oxford St. with our Kindles in our hands. We'd sit for hours and split the time between reading, talking, and people watching. (Our book choices were and are always quite different -- she recently polished off 50 Shades of Grey in about 45 minutes and I just finished a great baseball read called The Bullpen Gospels.) Today, we share many hobbies -- running, blogging, drinking good wine, eating good food, to name a few -- but Kindling in Harvard Yard is still our favorite. And really, as I thought more about it, that stands out as how we really met and how we fell in love.

So the next time someone asks -- or the first time I tell my son or daughter about it -- I'm going to take a page out of Laura's parents' book. (Pun not intended. Okay, maybe it a was a little ...). Here goes:

"You see, son, we were both walking around Harvard Yard one sunny, Saturday afternoon. Then, out of the corner of our eyes, we saw a single Kindle resting on a purple chair. We both thought it was ours, so we reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, 'Well, we might as well read this together.' And the rest is history ..."

Yeah, I like that much better.