You Are My "Option A"

Dear El,

With Valentine's Day and our 14^th wedding anniversary coming just about a week apart, I was trying to think of something new that I haven’t written about before, but I can't. Last February I blogged about our marriage and meeting and being engaged and how I wouldn't change any of it for the world. The post included the story that I have told a hundred times about your “engagement ring.” In fact, the other day I was telling someone the story of the “engagement computer” and whenever I tell it, there is always a long pause at the end, just before the reveal. I end with…“I gave her the choice. I said that I would go out tomorrow and buy a “real” engagement ring, or I will buy you a brand new computer...”  Then I ask if they want to guess which one you chose. Most people, when they find out that you chose the computer seem a bit surprised- making it clear that, given the same choice,  they would have taken option A instead. I don’t know why that surprises me, but every time I get to tell that story- and even though I know how the story ends, I am reminded why I know I married the right person for me. All other things being equal, I am usually an option B kind of guy…usually. I think I frequently do things that are a bit unconventional- like moving away from our home for 27 months to figure out who I am.

Did I ever tell you about the time when I was in 9^th grade and I cut my hair? I have always had a poor self-image. Still do. In 1984 I was 14 and in 8^th grade and it was a particularly difficult time for me and I made the conscious decision to grow my hair long. I am certain it had to do with wanting to look like the rock stars I was listening to, but I do not know if there was one specific person I was trying to copy. Well, it didn't take long for people to start noticing and begin making comments voicing their disapproval. I am sure it was around that time that I learned what a “hippie” was after being called one on several occasions. There were also a couple of incidents with adults who derided me in front of my friends or strangers, which couldn't have helped my esteem situation much. Nonetheless, as time passed, the hair continued to grow into the next school year. In 9^th grade I had General Science as the last class of the day and there was always a few minutes at the end of the class where we got our stuff packed up and waited for the dismissal bell. We always had more time to pack up than we needed, so it usually turned into a few minutes of kids with their bags and coats sitting on those two-person lab tables and socializing before heading home for the day. Well, a few of the kids took this opportunity to discuss my hair frequently. I was captive. I couldn't leave, and I could argue to deaf ears. I am not sure how long it took for this to get to me and I am certain it was the culmination of factors: the kids in school, the kids outside of school, the adults who should have known better, and the adults who were too stupid to know better, but the straw on the proverbial camel were these afternoons in Mrs. Whalen's 9^th grade science class. They worked on me regularly until finally I made the decision to cut it off. It wasn't the end of the world and I didn't know at that point what the future was- would I grow it out again or keep it maintained as is? I went to science class the next day and my hair made for quite the conversation piece. I don’t think I even had an opinion up until that point. We have all said or heard the saying: “mark this day on the calendar”, but, one of the kids actually did it. He went to the calendar hanging behind the teacher’s desk and literally circled the date and wrote “Simeon Got A Haircut!!!” Everyone, including the teacher thought it was funny, but that moment, as the whole class was laughing at first I thought “why do they care so much?” or “why are they so happy that I went to the barber?” Then I started to feel bad, seeing the pleasure it elicited in them. It was that day that I asked myself a few more questions…”if my parents don’t have a problem with it, why do they?” and “if my friends aren't making fun of me for it, what does it matter what these people who aren't my friends think?” They had broken me and I had succumbed to peer pressure. That was the day I decided to be an option B person.

It was a life defining moment for me and I have been OK with trying to live every day since then on my own terms. I think that is what makes me an option B person. There is a difference between choosing a different path vs. a harmful path and as long as it isn't hurtful, different can sometimes allow you to experience things that others miss because they don’t choose option B enough of the time. Over the past 14 years I think you have come to appreciate option B, and for that, you are my option A. 

We went to Paris for dinner

In Munich, Germany, we drove our own car on the autobahn

Who else has even heard of Ponta Delgada, let along hiked 14 km around a volcano there?

In Melbourne, Australia, for who else would getting this photo be a priority?

In Lima, Peru, we walked through the worst/scariest neighborhood to eat at this amazing restaurant

In Beijing, China we went by ourselves to find Li Qun...and loved it.

In Odessa, Ukraine we went for a most unusual tour of the catacombs

Here's to many more "option B" times with my "option A" wife. I love you very much and I’ll be home soon.

Sim

P.S. Remind me sometime to tell you the story of when I was 17 years old and the length of my hair essentially got me fired from my job.