That is my better half. My other half. The half that makes me whole. I love her. And I love this photo of her. Curly hair, dimple and more than a hint of mischief. Emily was born in St. Louis. By birth she is a Cardinals fan. By choice she would rather knit or can food for our family. After the worst two seasons of Red Sox baseball in history, I bought myself a Cardinals cap. But I never got rid of my Sox caps. I was born in Boston. By birth and by choice and by blood I am most definitely a hard-core, die-hard Red Sox fan. Emily more than puts up with this craziness. She only rarely complains that the single reason we pay for cable television is so I can watch the Red Sox. She may think it is a stupid waste of time and money, but she never says so. Because she loves me.
This is not so unlike other things Emily has had to put up with and adapt to. We all have to adjust and modify our lives when we choose to be in relationship with someone. And of course I have also accommodated in order to harmonize (I still miss Wonder Bread and secretly fondle it when I am in the grocery store). But I’m honest enough to admit that mostly it has been Emily who has adjusted to (big) things she had neither conceived of nor anticipated before marrying me. She never in her wildest dreams imagined she’d have cable television or that she’d know (and follow and take pride in) the batting averages of our designated hitter, left fielder or second baseman. She never expected to be married to someone who is transgender. She got both and more. And aside from the incipient shock and fears, and some understandable initial heel dragging, I think we’ve danced this dance quite well. Not easily. Not always enjoyably. But well. I am grateful beyond all measure.
She has actually recently made the biggest sacrifice ever for love of me. We’re getting a puppy. Well, I’m getting a puppy. She’ll be coming home the weekend after Thanksgiving (where I’ll do my best not to gloat over the thrashing Boston is bound to give the Cardinals in the series). I’m excited right out of my skin. Which is one reason why I love dogs (they let me get out of my own skin). And while I battle the inner voices and feelings saying I don’t deserve this, I’m joyous and jubilant and overwhelmingly appreciative. I’m still not allowed to name it Hatshepsut or even Morgan. (Emily prefers Cleo) But heck, I’m so thrilled, that giving up naming rights is fine with me. That, and giving in to everything Emily wants for the next 15 years. Hey, I’m getting a dog!
Thanks babe, I love you!