At the Metropolitan Museum of Art yesterday, we found ourselves in a section made to replicate walking through 18th and 19th century wealthy European estates. We couldn’t decide sometimes if “opulent” or “ostentatious” was a better descriptor, though “impressive” was certainly an accurate term. One room in particular caused us both to stop in our tracks. “Jane Austen-esque” was the term for that room, and I am a huge Jane Austen fan.
The high ceiling and the walls were a rich buttercup with beautiful white detailing. A chandelier hung in the center dripping with crystals, while the gold scrolled furniture lined the walls. The center of the room was empty, and we stood wide-eyed in the middle of the polished wood floor. Without words, my husband looked at me, placed one hand on my waist and grabbed my hand with his other, and we waltzed.
On Friday night after the musical, we were all dressed up in the middle of NYC and I decided I wanted a hoity-toity martini in a hoity-toity place. This is not the norm for us. We’re pub people. You know– dark wood, pints of beer, down to earth people, and jeans. But hoity-toity was what I wanted, and my husband delivered. He confidently walked into the W Hotel in Times Square and got into the elevator. He confidently pushed a button. I had no idea what was going on but I didn’t want the strangers in the elevator to know we didn’t belong in this place, so I remained silent. We popped out in a ridiculously loud and obnoxiously trendy bar. We ordered two martinis from a rail-thin girl who seemed annoyed that we even existed. As we sat down on a strange ottoman/table/decorated-something-or-other with our martinis, I asked Brian how he knew to find this place. He didn’t. He walked confidently, and delivered my every wish to me.
Sometimes my husband is selfish. Sometimes he makes decisions based more on his comfort than my desires. Sometimes he really hurts my feelings. But that’s not who he is or what he really wants. My husband is fallible. He isn’t perfect. But at his core, he is loving and he wants to make me happy– no matter how silly my desires. He gave me the chance to be Elizabeth Bennet dancing at a ball, and Carrie Bradshaw all dressed up and sipping a cocktail in posh bar.
These aren’t Brian’s dreams. The reality for Brian was that he danced in the middle of a museum and then had a drink in an incredibly uncomfortable and loud bar. But he loves me and wants me to be happy, whether I’m Lindsey, Lizzie, or Carrie. It’s the same thing I did that day on the honeymoon when Brian thought that he was Hemingway and decided to conquer the sea. That’s what we do in marriage– we seek other’s ultimate good. We help the other to realize their dreams. We try our hardest to love each other well.
And Brian loves me really well.