My Parents' Romance

My parents met in high school. It’s only natural that they look at me and wonder what’s taking me so long. I’ve heard the stories and envy the simplicity of it all, the prelude to a marriage devoid of fights, twenty five years of holding hands like it’s the first time and still inspiring goofy smiles four kids later. I believe it started at church one Sunday when my dad leaned far back in his Sunday School chair to appear nonchalant to the new girl in town. Later, it’s been said they met up at a dance and she flattered him by asking if he played basketball for their high school team. The song was over but they kept dancing, I’ve heard, and my mom must have smiled to herself, fully aware that her basketball skills surpassed those she had called attention to. At least that’s what I gather.
Somewhere in the story is a roller rink, a genius invention for boys too cowardly to hold a girl’s hand otherwise. I know this because I’ve tested the waters in this setting myself. I went last year to roller skate with some new friends, determined to impress a girl there, but wound up in the emergency room with a broken wrist that took months and two surgeries to heal. Had I not needed urgent medical care, the object of my admiration may not have noticed me at all. As it was, my interests soon changed and I would try always to position myself on her right side so that enviable handholding could remain a distinct possibility uninhibited by the cast on my right arm.
I know my aunt had some interest in my dad, for a day or two at least. It’s strange when I think about it, when they spend Christmas morning or Thanksgiving dinner passing presents and gravy boats between them. But it was nothing even then, and time I’m sure has all but erased much memory at all of girlish crushes or the sisterly competition I’ve heard ensued. She offered to teach my mom to flirt to assert her superiority in the matter. When she’d invited Dad over, Mom popping popcorn on the stove in an outfit he claims to remember was a more tempting prospect than anything the younger sister had to offer. And on they went.
I’m sure I’ve heard all about the first date. Undoubtedly it was a group date and involved miniature golf or something similar. Had I the means I would like to watch it in all its awkward glory. I would like to see the first time he tried to hold her hand but ended up flexing his fingers and beating himself up like I’ve done more times than I recall. I’d like to see my mom come home, a ball of girlish nerves, and pace her bedroom to keep hold of fresh memories. I’d skip the first and subsequent kisses, and find the scene where they sit on the large front steps of my grandparents’ house, discussing marriage at the age of sixteen. And I could swallow my pride and resist the urge to roll my eyes, knowing how it ends.
I have a feeling it was not unlike a quirky romantic comedy, or a Wonder Years episode. And maybe it wasn’t too far removed from my own experience. I wondered in high school if I’d repeat history like my older brother had. But I had my share of finger brush-by’s and almost-kisses. And it’s better to imagine it. My dad insists still that his nightly popcorn ritual harks back to that afternoon he smelled it from the kitchen and saw Mom standing there. And I grew up with that, snagging a handful of popcorn from his bowl as he walked upstairs to bed, leading the woman with whom he’s still as in love with as ever. And I’ll get there, I guess.

On Top Ramen

You can imagine the looks I got, a college age young man, making my way to the late night grocery store crowd to the checkout with little more than an enormous box of Top Ramen. Typical, they seemed to say. That’s men for you. Never mind the fact that I’d also picked up yeast for the foccacia I was planning on making the next day. I was a cliché.
Top Ramen is easy. Few people know how to make it right, how to keep the noodles from getting gummy and transparent and making the house reek of classlessness and sloth. When I boil water on my stove it smells like the house is burning down. I thought things might be different if we condescended to line to burners with foil but to no avail. The hot water goes over the noodles and salty pork flavoring, already waiting in the bowl. And it only takes a few pokes of the fork to soften your lunch to chewing consistency.
I set the box on the checkout conveyor belt and braced myself for the painful banter I’d undoubtedly have with the checker upon his discovery of my all-too-typical eating habits. The girl bagging my groceries, though, was in no way going to let me steal that man’s attention away from her. She had a flirtatious giggle or a mindless tease for every twenty-cent packet of soup he had to ring up. The girl behind me in line was quick to inform me that some canned peas or corn could help legitimize my meal choice and I wondered when she’d stocked up and if she’d waited until 12:00 am on a weeknight to avoid the looks of scrutiny and judgment.
I love food. Had I the means, every meal would be special. And there’s no way I’d waste time with any food item with “convenience” on the package. However, if I can fill up for two dimes and one bowl to wash I’m a happy man. I don’t brag about my simple peasant food, but if I can swallow sodium-heavy, processed, imitation Asian pasta, I can swallow my pride long enough to get through lunch.
I got home with three bags, two of which were filled with the Top Ramen whose box the bagging girl couldn’t seem to negotiate into a single bag without abandoning all sense of order and resorting to unceremonious dumping. She’d smiled coyly at the checker then and he took my credit card to swipe. The living room was full of friends who laughed politely at my tale and more scornfully at the contents of the bags. The reusable canvas grocery sacks that made me feel more socially conscious hung jealously on the wall in the laundry room. Not so jealous, perhaps, that they’d have been stuffed with embarrassing college food.
I’m not a cliché. I just eat Top Ramen. And someday I’ll stop being so ashamed. Or I’ll somehow find myself in a position where I don’t have to worry about price or dishes to wash by hand. And I wonder which will come first.