I Married an iPod: Marriage and Comfortable Chatter

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We just can't stop talking.

I cannot read a book around my husband. I can hold a book open, and look at it, but every few sentences, Billy will have something new to tell me.  After he interrupts me enough times, I give up and chat with him instead. I don’t mind.

Billy would tell this story the other way around, and that’s fair. I’m usually bursting with things to tell him, too. This is most evident in the morning. I wake up before he does, and somehow, I’m always dying to tell him about my dreams, how I slept, and everything I have to do that day.

I try my hardest not to unload my thoughts on Billy until he’s ready. I wait until he initiates conversation with me. This is what I call “opening the floodgates.”

“Morning,” he’ll mumble from his pillow.

This is my cue to tell him all the thoughts I’ve been holding in since we went to bed.

Even when we’re apart, Billy and I tend to tell each other everything. We text each other — a lot. Friends are used to watching me send him pictures of my food and updates about where I am and what's going on. I try to be discreet about it, but if something funny happens, I can’t resist texting Billy the play-by-play.

To be honest, this is what I love most about him. I love his earnest, undivided attention. And I love being the person who gets an unfiltered gaze into his wondrous brain. I was lucky to marry a man who is smart, funny, creative, and wildly unpredictable. His train of thought blazes like wildfire, moving from topic to topic and veering into unexpected directions. Or maybe he’s more like an iPod on shuffle — constantly streaming new songs and new ideas into my eager ears.

I like to think that I keep him on track. When he careens down a path of self-doubt, I reel him back in. And when I need reassurance, a laugh, a fresh perspective, or just a place to put my wandering thoughts, he never leaves me hanging.

Some couples have comfortable silence. Billy and I have comfortable incessant chatter.

May he never run out of things to tell me.

The Time a Stranger Grabbed Me Between My Legs

Thirteen years ago, I was riding the bus home from work. I sat near the front of the bus on a bench seat facing the aisle. I read a book.

Suddenly, a man grabbed my thigh. I flinched. He moved his hand into my crotch.

I slapped his hand. He kept touching me. I clenched my legs together. He forced his hand harder between them while I pushed his arm, helplessly.

He grinned.

I don't think I made a sound. I was so stunned, part of me didn't believe it was happening. I looked up and realized that several people, directly across from me, were watching in surprised silence while I tried to push a much-stronger man off of me.

Finally, an older woman came to my rescue. She was small but stern, and had the air of a schoolteacher. She sat down on the other side of me and scolded the man. He reached for me one last time, and she scolded him again. He laughed, then got up and exited the bus.

I only remember one thing about the rest of that humiliating ride home.

A man, directly across from me, grinned at me. I thought he felt embarrassed for not standing up for me. But then he said these words to me: "Come on, honey. Smile."

He told me I should smile.

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I felt helpless and scared when that happened. But most of all, I was mad. No one should have to worry about protecting their private parts while they sit on a bus. I knew that man's behavior wasn't normal.

That should never be normal. 

And the thing is, I really thought my fellow women agreed with me on that.

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Last week, we watched a presidential candidate talk about grabbing women between their legs. He called it "locker room talk," even though he wasn't in a locker room. He dismissed it.

And his supporters, blinded by devotion, or more likely, hatred, dismissed it too.

They compared his behavior to movies, books, and rap songs -- all forms of entertainment. But running the country isn't entertainment. Not even if you put a reality TV star on the job.

I am ashamed of all of these people.

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When a man talks dirty about a woman's body, that's vulgar. When he talks about grabbing her private parts without consent, that is violent.

Next month, we get to make a choice. We get to decide what we tolerate. We get to choose what is normal.

What you condone, you accept as normal.

If you tell me that sexual assault is normal -- that it's just part of being a man, then I am deeply afraid.

I am afraid to work for you.

I am afraid to ride the bus with you. 

I am afraid of your sons.

I am afraid to live in the country you made.

And I am ashamed for you.