Crossing the Rubicon

When I first met Julie, the things that struck me about him were his cute butt, and the mighty attractive way a leather jacket hung on his slim boy-build. He was funny, but not back-slappingly so  -- his delivery was so dry, I often wasn't sure if he actually was joking, and found myself calmly, smilingly attentive in his presence. We met in a group of friends, and though he didn't chat an awful lot, what he had to say was always thoughtful, interesting, so well worth the wait.  I also loved the fact that he was an artist, a talented one, that he read and made conversational reference to interesting articles in the Times, and that this was all mixed in with a little earthy, sweet Brooklyn. We were both in pretty committed, albeit fractured, relationships at the time, and didn't consider  each other prospects for a good while -- we got to know each other as just friends.  We once got into an argument over a misunderstanding, and though I stayed behind to nurse my wounds once our gathering dispersed, he waited at my bus stop to apologize and take me home.  He later told his roommate that had I picked a piece of lint off his jacket during the ride, and Tom drew a winking conclusion that I won't repeat in mixed company.

After we'd known each other for about a year, and shortly after I'd broken up with the guy I'd been seeing, Julius' girlfriend died. He had been inching out of the five-year relationship for some time, but while things hadn't been good, she was sweet and he still loved her, and didn't have the heart.  He was devastated by her death, of course, and I met him for coffee -- our first solo outing -- just to make sure he was okay.  He appreciated my company, seemed to feel therapeutically buoyed by it, and revealed himself to be, to  my surprise, extremely chatty one-on-one. Though I certainly liked him, I had vowed, after my last relationship mess, to stay single for at least a year  -- and under the traumatic circumstances, Julius was hardly the prime stuff of exceptions.  But the lint, it seems, had been picked. Julius and I loved each other, in as good and pure a way as I've witnessed, and within two years we were married.

It has been almost thirty-two now, two amazingly brilliant and beautiful daughters to show for it, and we still enjoy and cherish each other's company more than anything.  Even our children remark on what a good, healthy pair we are together. In addition to the cute butt and other immediate impressions, Julius turns out to be exquisitely caring, honest, and infinitely patient with his sometimes high-maintenance wife. When I first told him about my plan to travel to Rome on my sabbatical, he was thrilled and abuzz for me, and only a passing smidge perturbed by the idea that he might not be able to join me. He is, as it turns out, coming in a few days, and I am beside myself with excitement -- and proud that I, a week more Roman than he is, get to show him around the town.


For a while after we were engaged, and even occasionally to this day, we had a running joke where we would say, without an ounce of sincerity, "Are you sure?  It's not too late to change your mind..." Just the repetition of "Sure?" came to be an expression of affection with and amongst each other, our girls, beloved pets.  I don't know whether it's too late, but I have never even glancingly considered changing my mind. And I am very sure.


It's Julie's birthday today.  Happy, happy, guy.  I'm so very glad you were born.