An Open Love Letter to Dan

On this Valentine’s Day, my husband, Daniel John McBee, drove us to Madison so that we might protest the proposed budget cuts in the bitter cold. After about 45 minutes standing in the UW-Madison Library Mall, I could stand no more (-11 degrees dude) and he drove me home. He’s not an educator, but not only did he don his snowsuit and make the trip with me, but he spent hours constructing wind-proof signs for us. His featured a pretty awesome photoshop of Scott Walker's face on John Blutarsky's body – his idea.

Frankly, I always thought a man this supportive, creative, and selfless was too much to ask for someone like me. Even when I was young and pretty, I didn’t know I was, and the reality of my disability and its effects on my appearance constantly loomed over my confidence. I struggled with unrequited love in high school and college, unable to approach the men who I liked and unwilling to accept those who liked me (even the cute ones.) When I finally blossomed into sexuality, it was late, and I still couldn’t find myself connecting to anyone for any length of time.

I had was familiar with this concept of love – read, watched, was told of many iterations of the idea. I saw my mom marry twice and then three times. Saw her identity morph around each new love in a way that I think made me hesitant, though I was happy she was happy. (I am somewhat possessive of my identity – it took so long to embrace it.) I saw my father weep and grieve the loss of his first marriage only to be made sublimely happy in the second, and in quick succession. None of it seemed to fit the concepts I’d been exposed to. I never knew what to look for, although everyone kept telling me that surely I would “find” it if I wanted to.

After a two-year relationship during which I felt angry and unloved most of the time, I began to toy with the idea that “love” was a figment of our collective imaginations. You said it to a person, performed it in your actions, but it wasn’t a “feeling” as such. You could love your family, your cat, a song, even a friend, but the idea that there was this person who, out of billions worldwide, who not only made you feel this certain special thing, but felt this certain special thing about you, was ridiculous.

Years of fruitless and disappointing dating when I moved to Milwaukee did not disprove this theory. At one point I made a pact with a male buddy that if we were both still single at age 40 we’d go ahead and marry each other. (He's married now, too - man on the right below.) I began to think I didn’t really want a permanent relationship. Surely if I’d wanted a man, I’d get one. My ongoing single status was a choice, I realized. A selfish choice that I made to spare my own happiness. I’d met plenty of inspiring, beautiful, powerful, feminine and completely happy women at that point who had never married and likely never would. I guessed I could take the same route.

But there was this problem of intimacy, and my overwhelming desire to share it with someone possessing a penis and testicles. I’m not proud of it, but it happens to be something I can’t do without. For that reason I delved into the world of match.com and after one rather disheartening experience after another, cancelled and switched to Okcupid, which was a least free of charge. (See my profile photos below.) This lead to more disappointment, and by the time I accepted a brunch date with a man named Dan I was actually hoping I wouldn’t like him. I kind of felt that the entire male gender could be flushed down the toilet and the world would be better for it.

Dan was this guy who was into grilling, and I was looking for advice on how to grill pizza. He was relatively decent-looking, and never once asked if I would like to ride his cock. He worked with homeless people. Like mine, his profile was understatedly cheeky and had no misspellings. After a few casual, brief messages, he asked if we could meet. I was lukewarm about the idea, but at least he wasn’t pushy. On the phone, he had a very high voice and talked a lot and loudly. I found myself rolling my eyes a bit. But brunch couldn’t hurt, and what was I doing on these sites if not fishing for a free meal now and then?

I didn’t dress up or look my best. I wore sneakers and I think my jeans were dirty. I was late. No fucks given in other words. Dan was waiting for me at the bar in Lulu’s. He was cuter in person. Very cute. Never thought I would think that of someone with a beard. He wasn’t as annoying as I predicted. He had opinions though. He wasn’t boring. He took me to look for my Halloween costume.

Fast forward. I vowed I wasn’t going to sleep with guys right away any more, and Dan was respectful of that. One week does seem like right away, I know. But you should know we saw each other five times in that week. It was that fast.

 

There isn’t really a narrative about love I can think of that matches what I experienced with this man. I felt something happening, but I didn’t know how to articulate what, and I still don’t.  I had never so looked forward to seeing a person in my life. I had never been so excited for a phone call from someone. Never felt so comfortable with someone else’s body. I mean we were farting on each other before the end of a month.

I don’t feel so much that I changed as a person, but I think I came to appreciate the person I was more through Dan’s eyes. I love Dan because he makes me love myself. After we had fights 1-? my love for him didn’t diminish. It hasn’t diminished as we’ve nested and the sexy part has waned. It just gets thicker and thicker. It surrounds and envelops me more and more. At first, it felt like I was going crazy. I actually entertained the notion that I just imagined him. Sometimes I still think he’s my imaginary husband and I’m actually living in my apartment alone, buying myself flowers and eating those frozen pizzas myself.

 

 It was such a strange and otherworldly feeling that I wrote a poem about it, which was published in Ellipsis: Literature and Art. Mainly it’s about the way I felt, which was that I was actually losing my mind. I think maybe it was like that because Dan made me see my flaws and all the parts of myself that I hid from – my disability, my past emotional issues, my idiosyncrasies – as somehow beautiful and sacred.

 The truth is, I never thought anyone could compare to my father and my brother. But Dan invites that comparison. I’m constantly proud and awed by the work he does, his humor, his ability to be himself without slavish regard to societal conventions, his devotion and genuine interest in my feelings. Of course he has flaws – Gary Stewart and Gary Jr. have theirs too – but I’m angry at him very infrequently. I never feel like I hate him. I had previously thought that constant rage was a given. You couldn’t be with a man and not spend most of your days boiling with anger and/or annoyance. Such is apparently not the case. Even after four years of marriage.

 

Dan and I married in Las Vegas in a small ceremony before our siblings and a couple of friends. The wedding felt like hardly the point, but weirdly we were both nauseous with nerves beforehand. What has followed has been a difficult time for both of us. Our financial situation is constantly in turmoil, and I’ve had an overabundance of death in my family lately. I am fighting depression and so is he. But the sweet feeling I get from seeing him come home, getting a text or call, looking forward to a trip together, any chance to spend time with him even doing nothing, is as satisfying as ever. It’s as if nothing can unravel that joy…the knot keeps getting tighter.

 So, for Dan, my love and my happiness, I donate a short-short I wrote about our engagement to this blog. I thought about getting it published, like I did with “Fatal Vision?”, but now I think I’ll keep it. Enjoy. (I love you Danny!)

I Said Yes to All

Was it two hours seven minutes from the time on Thursday that the ring was brought home to the time it was given? And was the explanation for his absence believable? (A client with chronic flatulence. Likely story.) And was it that which gave him away or the invitation to the Milwaukee Domes on Saturday? (The very place you might expect to be proposed to, hopefully in some humid, flower-veiled corner away from screaming kids.) Did you make love not long after you knew? (Actually, as a child I would have loved the giant glass orbs – inside a garden, a jungle, a desert. He must have known that.) And was your hair matted now as well as dirty, bent from a pony tail and greasy from spin class sweat? (And my makeup smeared over my face like a contrail. Wearing a pajama top and bottom – not matching.) And did you look forward to your dreams, while he sat frantically awake and asking strange questions? (What if I proposed to you while you were taking a crap? What if I were taking a crap?) And did you explain that you have no fantasies about proposals, didn’t cut out pictures in magazines of your future wedding, like some girls did. (What if I had married earlier? Would I have maybe met the one I love so much, later, when the shadows grew long anyway?) And did he believe you, eventually, and did you feel it coming? (He was wearing a KOSS promo shirt and a pair of boxers with reindeer on them. It’s late March… going out like sweet little lion.) And did he run, not walk, into and out of the bedroom? (I was laughing, because now it was a surprise again.) And did he get down on one knee and place the sparkly, gleaming, special thing on your finger? (He pulled it out of the waistband of his shorts. He also had on mismatched socks. He is beautiful.) And did you want to hug him forever? (Like always.) And was it like always?