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I work full time at a hard job that is in demand, that I figure counts in life and is satisfying more often than not. I make a living wage, more than many folks in jobs involving manual labor of any kind.

I have worked enough benefits-free, crappy, dead-end, part-time jobs in my life to know the kind of hopeless fatigue that sets into bones. I know the gut drop sensation when the stated wage per hour and the total expected on the check has nothing to do with reality, nor does it come up to the figure of the added up bills. I know about the daily scan of classifieds and fliers for yet another part time or temporary job. Even now, with a decent wage, we live in a tiny apartment that we found out is going condo- and far out of our reach or desire for purchase, when our lease is up next year.

My dear one worries because he is doing grad school full time, and I will not compass him working more than a small job, because this is his later-in-life, last, best chance. Because although making rent and having security matter deeply to us, money, really, when we stop to think about it, does not.


I used to kid him that I had married him for his money. Then quote Casablanca: "(Shrug) I was misinformed." We both came together when we had nothing, and were scrabbling along. We both leapt into the dark of our future, with no idea how we were going to float. We took turns holding each other's heads up, breathing in shifts, until we found our feet. Now that he has found his own course, he is feeling guilty that I am the one holding him up. And I say.

Bunk.

We are not living our lives to make money. We are not living our lives to own a home, or a car, or travel the world. Desirable comforts all, but not the point. We love and are loved. We have friends, and new found cousins, we care deeply for. We are curious and helpful. He is happy researching, and writing and growing his considerable intellect. Happy.

When we first got together, he said his goal in life was to make me happy. Seemed utterly unreasonable to me then, but he did it. Does it every day. So, what could I do but my damnedest to reciprocate? This is our Deal. We each try to live up to the other's opinion of us. And become better people for the effort. Money is a kind of barometer- which we share and save to make sure we are ok. But no more, really, than say chocolate or warm sweaters.

I want him to be happy. To have work that he enjoys, to feel competent and of value in the face of the world. He wants that satisfaction. We want to live in that space between desperation and smugness.

It's taking longer than expected, but we've come further than I would once have imagined.




I really married him for his dimple.