Partner

I'd like to dedicate this post to my partner.

Maybe I'll get used to calling Brendon my husband at some point.  We both confessed to one another that referring to each other as, "my husband," or "my wife," feels slightly possessive and pretentious.

Certainly I've tried to say it this past week as situations required:

To the tailor, Mr. Swan:

"Can you sew a button into these pajama pants?  My boyf-, er, husband bought them and didn't notice that the crotch has nothing to fasten it closed." *fist in mouth to prevent giggling...perhaps due to recalling the funny dance Brendon did when he tried on the pants at home and discovered the fasten-less front to them.

To the guy at the shooting range when we went to try out our shotgun:

"No, I've never shot this before, it's a gift from my, um, this guy--my husband." *inarticulateness perhaps due to the 57 animal heads staring at me around Carter's Country and the occasional blast erupting from the range outside.

To the lady at Banana Republic, while I was looking at a purse: "Hang on, I've got to see what my...husband thinks of the fabric."  *no giggling, no terrible fumbling for words; Brendon is an expert shopper.

In fact, shopping was what kind of helped me get more used to saying it. Husband. This past week he's scoured the mall with me as I searched for a few gifts. He's offered all kinds of great feedback.

(In all the hubub of "eloping" and having a reception, there have been a few family members and friends who have just given a whole lot to us.  Encouragement, planning help, silverware...we so appreciate every generous act and thing thrown our way and want to give something back to say, "Oh wow, thank you!"  Hence the gift shopping.)

And he just really is a great shopper.  I've always known this, but I was really reminded of it as he stood in front of at least 10 purses and rejected all of them on the basis of color, texture, and size.  "No, that one's too busy/eh, I think that one's just too weird a shade of brown/definitely too small."  Over and over again, good reasons for passing up on the purchase.

"I think you really ought to go with the one at Banana Republic," he finally said.  "It even passes the Elbow Test."

Ladies, you know this one: can you pick up the bag and put it on your shoulder with the same hand?  Does the clearance between the purse opening and the top of the strap and the suppleness of the material allow your entire forearm to pass through without help from the other arm?

Don't laugh or scoff.  That is hands-down the most important question to ask before purchasing a handbag.  Unless it's truly meant to be an accessory. Lol. Now I'm scoffing. We all might buy a handbag at some point in our lives simply to compliment a look we're going for, but we also all know how deep in our closet that useless piece of whatever ends up.

Anyway, so we bought the sought-after gifts with great success, and I considered just how nice it was to shop with him.  And then again, to shoot guns with him (mentioned for all those concerned about his masculinity, because yes, he did also take me to the fabric store to pick out more lining for another jacket).

I know, I know, it's kind of cheesy.  But allow me this for heaven's sake!  I just married the guy, after all.  And I certainly didn't expect to upon first meeting him.  He says he knew pretty quickly, but I must admit that the tall gringo I met in that marketing class at Tec de Monterrey (see above photo of class; we're actually both in it if you look!) did not strike me as The Guy I'll Marry upon first meeting.

"I'm 27, I'm from New Mexico, and once while in the Navy I was in jail in Thailand."  These were the first things I knew about him as our professor randomly called on folks day 1 of class to give a quick intro of ourselves.

He called on me next, and I said, "Well, I'm Shannon, but I'm not going to go after him; there's no topping that story!"  The class laughed and the bell rang to signal the end of the period.  It was spring semester of my junior year of college, and I was spending my second term abroad in Monterrey, Mexico after a first term in Chile.

This was almost six years ago, when Monterrey was the bastion of safety in Mexico.  When car bombs only happened in the Middle East and walking the streets of Barrio Antiguo at 2am was probably safer than doing the same in Austin.

I was single, my worldview and many core beliefs were changing, everything was new and exciting.  I loved Spanish.  I loved being somewhere new.  I had learned to "survive" on my own in some ways and felt confidence that I'd never known before.  Chile had been fun, Mexico was going to be even better.

And I was going to date a Mexican! That's how you get really good at a language, according to all the exchange students.

Except I met Brendon.  He approached me after that first class and casually mentioned that he'd been in Monterrey the previous semester and roomed with a guy who'd taken this same class, so he had an extra textbook--did I want it?  I didn't really pay much attention, sure, yeah, the book would be great...the other foreign students were all kinda milling around in the halls there and we were all exchanging numbers.

I was focused on, well, myself really.  I wanted to travel, to know lots of people, and get really involved in my "internship" with the university (writing a kind of blog on the goings-on among the exchange students).

And then...he popped up again, giving me the promised book (I'd forgotten about it) at the computer lab the next day.  And again, inviting me to a soccer game, and again, asking if I'd be interested in a party.  I accepted a few of these invitations under the guise of Working Girl Needs to Be Where It's Happening to Report on Stuff.  Brendon knew everyone on campus it seemed, and if I was going to write about what was happening, guess I'd have to keep hanging out with him.

Weeks passed.  I turned down a couple of dates with Mexican boys.  I accepted a date with Brendon.  We planned trips with the other foreign students...and suddenly, we were hanging out all the time.

And we've been hanging out ever since.

The first thing I loved about him was how much fun I had with him.  He likes to do almost anything; I've climbed pyramids with him in Mexico, canoed at Barton Creek with him, shot semi-automatics in the Arizona desert with him, ridden bikes across the Golden Gate bridge with him, gambled in Vegas with him, eaten crawfish at a boil in east Texas with him...and at the same time, we've also sat and done absolutely nothing together.  All enjoyable.

We rode out a hurricane together.  We've sat in hospital waiting rooms together.  We've held new babies together and also very sadly experienced great loss together.

Over the years I've noticed that it's not even just me that enjoys talking to him; pretty much anyone with a minute or two in his presence will just spill their guts.

I think it's because he's really just kind at his core.  He likes listening to people and has taught me to try to do the same.  He'll gently remind me, "Shannon, people just want to be heard." Yeah, he definitely makes me a better version of me.

Whew, I'm getting just a little misty here.  Sorry, didn't mean to get so squishy.

I wanted to respond to the request that I explain how we met, and I thought that since he is such a great shopping partner, I could explain in this blog.

But it's not just shopping.  He's a great partner for everything.  He's...my husband.  My partner.