The Duller The Better...

Given that the last post I did was a serious story about our elopement, I thought to follow it up with a tongue-in-cheek piece. The following is an article I wrote in 1986 for a short-lived White Rock magazine. It should be said that while my husband thinks himself to be a dull man. I consider him anything but!

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Looking spiffy in 1986

The Duller The Better…
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Given my choice, I’d take a dull man any day. I won’t deny that types who dress in high style and know the best sushi bar in town have their appeal. I’ve been known to fall for polished looks and a well-rehearsed line; but in the long run, it’s hard to get serious about someone who squeezes you in between his weight lifting and his facial. .

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Life is saner with a dull man. He will not let you spend your evenings alone while he visits the tanning salon or has his hair styled. If he brings home a curling iron, it will be for you, and you will never have to worry about dousing yourself with cologne that turns out to have a hearty, macho name. The only perfume in the house will be yours; likewise the only purse.
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Blind to advertising, the dull man follows no-one’s lead. He remains oblivious to the latest craze, plodding onward in jeans and plaid shirt, while his counterparts rush to buy pastel sweaters and pants with someone else’s name stamped across the behind. .

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His hair has never been spiked, his ear never pierced, His conversations are not sprinkled with tales of his exploits; he’d rather listen to you than talk about himself. He’s more likely to take you on a picnic than a night on the town, impressing you most by not trying to impress you at all.
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This man may light few fires in the world but he’s the one that keeps them burning. His money is spent on braces for his kids, not on payments for a Porsche. He goes to the beach to swim, not to compete; and if he owns sunglasses, he wears them on his face, not on a string around his neck.
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His closet holds only what he needs; it is not crammed with jumpsuits, bell-bottomed pants, and the accumulated whims of yesteryear. This reassures me: I could never be comfortable with a man who owns more clothes than I do!
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Nor do I wish to fight for space in the jewelry box. Dull men do not wear chains or leave their shirts unbuttoned to the navel.
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They know that romance goes beyond showy gestures and outward appearance. Their hair is soft to the touch, not stiff with mousse, and because they’re more interested in you than in themselves, dull men can, at times, be anything but dull!
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My opinions stem from experience. I married a dull man, and I am comforted by the fact that he has changed little over the years. He has never owned brand name jogging shoes or a book on gourmet cooking. No encounter group has benefited from his experience, no health-food restaurant prospered at his expense.
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In a world where fads breed and die like horseflies, he remains loyal to his own list of priorities – and I’m at the top of the list.
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That’s my kind of man!

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A Love Story...

My marriage began with an elopement..

In the Sixties, twenty-one was the age to marry without parental consent in Canada. While I was of age, Michael had just turned twenty. From the beginning, our partnership was not treasured by either set of parents…in fact there was little common ground for either family to understand the other at all. My Irish emigrant parents were much too fond of whisky, and loved a loud, resounding fight…Michael’s parents had a glass of good wine with dinner and never, ever raised their voices.
.November 12th, 1968

My parents each had to leave school as young teenagers to help support their families in poverty-ravaged Belfast…Michael’s parents were university-educated professionals of some note. The chasm between our perspective realities grew ever wider as we got to know each other. When invited to Michael’s for a meal, I was flustered by the plethora of cutlery spread out before me, and struggled not to gag at the sight of bloody red meat floating on its fine china platter. When coming to my house for dinner, Michael did not immediately recognize the shriveled gray lump on his plate as roast beef, and seemed puzzled that it was served on TV trays in front of the hockey game. The two households were polar opposites in terms of culture, economics, social standing and stability.

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It was no real surprise then, when our announced plan to marry after dating for a year hit a hard wall of resistance. What started out as flat refusal grudgingly eased on my parents’ part when I rose above my normally timid nature and made it clear this was what I wanted, though dire warnings of certain regret were rained upon me night after night without fail. Michael’s parents held out longer, but finally, unhappily agreed to give their consent when it was clear we were going ahead. We planned a very small wedding, immediate family only as all my relatives were overseas, and my future in-laws did not see it as an occasion to celebrate. I bought a pretty white dress…we looked at apartments, and lined up a minister at our local Anglican church.

A week before the wedding was to take place, Michael’s mum and dad rescinded, protesting they could not in all conscience condone this farce of a marriage that would never last. They would not sign the consent forms after all.

.Africa , 2007, after a hot-air balloon ride over the Serengeti.

We were in love; we’d bought furniture, rented an apartment…we eloped, flying from Vancouver to Detroit to be married in the City Hall by a Justice of the Peace, because it was the only place we knew with a lower age restriction. It would be nice to say that things improved markedly after that, but such was not the case. It was a number of years before the bitterness between the families softened, and life took on some normalcy. It was definitely not an ideal way to start a marriage. Eventually, gaps were bridged, bonds were formed and our children could have both sets of grandparents in a room together, but a heavy price was paid to get to there…

That was forty-two years ago today, and if I had to, I would do it all again in a minute! I’m blessed to be married to my kind and funny best friend; a man who is truly one of the good guys, someone who consistently goes out of his way to help others and has the gentlest nature of anyone I know. Of course we’ve had our ups and downs as couples do, but not for a minute have I regretted tying my life to his.

For four decades, we have laughed and loved…lived a full life together with all the joy, sorrow and wonderment that building a family entails. It has been an amazing ride and I hope for many more years to share with him..

We staged a quick photo shoot the evening after returning from Detroit, so I might get to wear my little wedding dress at least once, and have pictures to remember the day. It is still a strange mix of emotions I experience when looking at these photos, our obvious delight in each other tempered by so many conflicting factors. But one can’t dwell on what might have been, and while ours is not a traditional love story with the fairy tale wedding and the happily-ever-after, we have made our own story and it is a good one.
You continue to be my hero, Michael. I admire your compassionate heart, your sense of justice and your ability to see what truly matters in the world…and it is no small thing that you still make me laugh more easily than anyone else I’ve ever met.

I will love you forever…
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