When I was the pseudo-hippie version of myself in college, I would get wrapped up in song. I was a music major for the majority of my schooling, but I would not get caught up in the traditional opera fare that I myself partook in, I would often get caught up in whatever garbage was circulating on the radio at the time.
I remember my Kati and I driving around the hills of New York jamming out to Drops of Jupiter (the it song of the summer of ’01) and I knew even then that it was a terrible song, but I couldn’t help myself.
Because I aspired to be the most enlightened version of myself at the time, the one proclamation that I remember making about my future husband was this…
“if a good song is on the radio, and we arrive at our destination, I want him to finish the song before getting out of the car”
At the time, I’m sure I was making this statement because I thought that it was running against the man or someone’s obligation toward time over the actual enjoyment of an experience or some high and mighty pretentious thought like that, but the great irony of my self-proclaimed rule is that I have married this man a thousand times over.
What I didn’t know at the time was how once obtaining a proper home and schedule, I would become (in many ways) the opposite of the girl of that summer in 2001. I would need a man who just took the time to listen to a dumb song more than keeping up with a time table.
What I didn’t know then is that this same man would be the one to quit his job in the city, step into the unknown with me, be the first one to crack open our foster care paperwork all to be the one who just listens to the song on the radio with me…without fear of what’s coming once we arrive at that destination together.