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LifeFiles: Love And Welsh Hip-Hop
Being Boring A Sign Of Comfort
POSTED: 9:19 am EST February 8,
2005
"Honestly, Welsh-language hip-hop music is very good. It's very innovative."Those are the words that are coming out of my mouth. Sure, I believe them, but, great googly-moogly, what an uninteresting topic of conversation -- especially for my wife, who neither speaks Welsh nor listens to hip-hop."Of course, it's different than American hip-hop; if not simply because there are so many more syllables in Welsh words. I mean, common English tends to run in the one- to three-syllable range ... ""SHUT UP, CHRIS! STOP TALKING!"That's what I'm thinking, but I just keep babbling on and on and on. I've taken my wife out for a nice dinner, and now I'm ruining it by arguing the merits of obscure music.My wife -- in her infinite beauty and grace -- sits there and nods and says, "Mmm-hmm," at the appropriate times so that all the diners around us won't point and laugh at me and make noises like Worl War II planes that have been shot down. Because if this were a first date, I would be done.That's where I'm at 5½ years into my marriage. If my wife weren't already my wife, I would never have a chance at getting her to come home with me. It's not that the spark is gone, but that I am no longer any good at drawing attention to the spark. I am tediously unromantic.With Valentine's Day now less than a week away, that fact is weighing heavily upon me. On an almost daily basis I have a conversation with myself about the impending date that sort of goes like this:
"I really need to do something nice for Rachel on Valentine's Day."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Make her something?"
"As in shelves? Nothing says, 'I love you,' like a spice rack. You're a moron, Chris." "Ooh, a spice rack would be a good idea. Too bad I have no carpentry skill. Maybe I could buy her something nice."
"You have about as much money as you have carpentry skill."
"Oh yeah, right. So what should I do?"
"Pray for a rupture in the fabric of time that will catapult you forward to Feb. 15, thus allowing you to skip Valentine's Day entirely."Arguably, one thing that I have going for me is my ability to use words. And I have thought on several occasions that I should write my wife a poem telling her how important she is to me. I have been meaning to do this since our anniversary, back in June.But come on, a poem? Why don't I also buy an acoustic guitar and start crying at sunsets while I'm at it?More problematic is that I can't seem to find the words to adequately express how important my wife has become to me over the years. She has become a part of me, I can't imagine how I would live my life without her.How do you write a poem about that? It would be like writing a poem for a body part: Ode To My Lungs.Actually, my wife is far more reliable than my lungs. I'm an asthmatic. My wife has never landed me in the hospital or gotten me picked last in gym class.As I say, the spark isn't gone. It's become a large flame, as in a fireplace that warms and comforts me. And instead of hovering over it, trying to keep it alive, I am able to sit quietly and think about filling my second-rate lungs with the smell of my wife's perfume, or how she looks like a librarian sexpot when she wears her glasses, or how I feel like a Super Bowl champion when she laughs at my jokes.When I take time to notice, that flame illuminates to me how much I love my wife.Oof. I just used the word "love." Last night's sunset sure was pretty wasn't it? Anybody have a Kleenex?So, my tedious discussion of niche langauage music, or the biography of gold-medal-winning Olympic curler Fiona MacDonald, or whatever else I'm blabbing about is -- in a very poor way -- an expression of love. I am so comfortable and happy with what my wife and I have that I can relax and be my boring, boring self.A dissertation on the microphone skills of MC Sleifar may not have the same meter or flow or beauty of a Shakespearean sonnet, but the message is the same:I am myself with my wife. And I can't imagine myself without her.Happy Valentine's Day.Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.
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"Like what?"
"I don't know. Make her something?"
"As in shelves? Nothing says, 'I love you,' like a spice rack. You're a moron, Chris." "Ooh, a spice rack would be a good idea. Too bad I have no carpentry skill. Maybe I could buy her something nice."
"You have about as much money as you have carpentry skill."
"Oh yeah, right. So what should I do?"
"Pray for a rupture in the fabric of time that will catapult you forward to Feb. 15, thus allowing you to skip Valentine's Day entirely."Arguably, one thing that I have going for me is my ability to use words. And I have thought on several occasions that I should write my wife a poem telling her how important she is to me. I have been meaning to do this since our anniversary, back in June.But come on, a poem? Why don't I also buy an acoustic guitar and start crying at sunsets while I'm at it?More problematic is that I can't seem to find the words to adequately express how important my wife has become to me over the years. She has become a part of me, I can't imagine how I would live my life without her.How do you write a poem about that? It would be like writing a poem for a body part: Ode To My Lungs.Actually, my wife is far more reliable than my lungs. I'm an asthmatic. My wife has never landed me in the hospital or gotten me picked last in gym class.As I say, the spark isn't gone. It's become a large flame, as in a fireplace that warms and comforts me. And instead of hovering over it, trying to keep it alive, I am able to sit quietly and think about filling my second-rate lungs with the smell of my wife's perfume, or how she looks like a librarian sexpot when she wears her glasses, or how I feel like a Super Bowl champion when she laughs at my jokes.When I take time to notice, that flame illuminates to me how much I love my wife.Oof. I just used the word "love." Last night's sunset sure was pretty wasn't it? Anybody have a Kleenex?So, my tedious discussion of niche langauage music, or the biography of gold-medal-winning Olympic curler Fiona MacDonald, or whatever else I'm blabbing about is -- in a very poor way -- an expression of love. I am so comfortable and happy with what my wife and I have that I can relax and be my boring, boring self.A dissertation on the microphone skills of MC Sleifar may not have the same meter or flow or beauty of a Shakespearean sonnet, but the message is the same:I am myself with my wife. And I can't imagine myself without her.Happy Valentine's Day.Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.
