After 18 years together, yes, Kathy and I—
—sometimes finish each other's sentences.
And frequently, we answer the other's questions before they're quite finished: 'Did you put—'
'—yes, it's in the livingroom on the coffeetable.'
We're not exactly telepathic—like I never get the message when I'm at the grocery store ( where apparently the towers of Campbell's soup and Van Camp's baked beans form a shield against cell phone reception ) and Kathy is beaming me thoughts of buying salad greens or organic eggs. Strangely enough, I'm always pretty sure she's telling me to buy some Krispy Kreme doughnuts and chocolate pudding.
But the fact remains that somehow, some sort of shorthand has developed in which we are so in sync we anticipate the other's concerns. It is a cozy, reassuring feeling—almost like having a second self to pick up the slack. But it can also lead to misguided responses—like when Kathy is certain my tone of voice indicates derision—when I think I'm being supportive—that she responds with a gibe or when I confidently, but incorrectly, guess what she is about to say. Things can get rather testy then. This kind of communication comfort, though, for better and worse, happens to most everyone in long-term relationships. The trick is not to let it stop you from actually talking to one another under the assumption you already know what the other thinks about every topic.
We've remained pretty good about talking, fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, if you consider this means we can spend hours conversing about, for instance, who in Kathy's family we think would be most likely to join a cult ( sorry: I'm not naming names! ) or making up fake rock-band monikers ( The Pudding Cups for a girl group and Earl Grey Peanut for a psychedelic '60s band ) or coming up with exotic aliases for ourselves ( such as our faves Kitty Armoire and Emma Von Vestibule ) . To be fair, we're not complete idiots; we also talk about politics, religion, current events, music, our jobs, my writing, Kathy's gardening and her mentor program, and, yes, Feelings, with a capital F. Consequently, we haven't fallen into that thing one so often sees where an elderly couple at a restaurant spends an entire meal without speaking to anyone but the waitress.
Despite our exemplary conversation skills, however, we still have the ability to miscommunicate outrageously. Perhaps our most infamous example, in pre-cell phone days, was when Kathy asked me to pick her up at the Belmont el stop. I got off the freeway at Kimball, cruised the long length of Belmont Avenue and came to rest under the Belmont el stop on the red line. And I sat there. And I sat there. And I sat there. Wondering where the heck she was, thinking we were going to miss softball practice, but mostly worried that something terrible had happened to her.
Something terrible had happened to her: after seeing me turn the corner off Kimball and doing an exaggerated, sexy, hitchhiking gesture, Kathy watched me keep on a'goin', leaving her behind at the Belmont el stop on the blue line with a dozen or so witnesses to her futile attempt to get my attention. After much fingernail biting, a bit of anxious crying, and driving hither and yon, hoping to spot her, I finally met up with Kathy at home. Now, years later, however, we laugh and laugh, thinking about it—and Kathy takes great pains to explain things to me in the sort of obsessive detail, and with much repetition, one would use for a child or someone suffering brain damage. And who can blame her? Even when I'm paying attention, my mind has a tendency to wander—to a line of poetry, to thinking about lunch, to worrying where I left my glasses. My brain is a very busy place: think 100 monkeys at 100 typewriters.
But the great thing is, Kathy knows this about me, and when it's not exasperating to her, she finds it endearing. And either way, we can talk about it—along with why no one's started proceedings to impeach Bush and what apparel our dog Nacho would look best in. Or maybe we'll both just start laughing—at a joke neither of us has spoken aloud and no one else would get.
© 2006 by Yvonne Zipter.
www.yvonnezipter.com .
