Cheerleading.
John's better at this than I am. Seriously. Sometimes I start talking about how blogging is egocentric and I need to delete this entire thing. John stops me. Sometimes I say that I wasted my college and graduate school years on something I'm no longer doing, and that whatever money in the universe was intended for my education should have been spent studying A and B and maybe even C. John reminds me that music is how we met. Sometimes I unleash a torrent of self-loathing in an effort to pay some sort of retribution to my waistline for too many calories eaten, and John has to listen to every word of it. He still does a little cheer and a little dance, though, and says I look great. Sometimes he even lifts me in the air and uses a foghorn.
That's his job, I guess. Cheerleader. Was that in our vows? We should have employed the actual term, and that would have made us The Spartans. I promise to be your cheerleader and jump up and down screaming when you score a goal. John Young Shik Spartan and Lauren Ashley Maxwell Concklin Spartan.
Being my cheerleader is a hard job. I have a problem with perfectionism, as you know, and the other thing is anxiety. I worry about Herbie being at home alone, and I worry about the next career step, and I worry about having said something wrong. John tells me all those things are going to be fine.
I try to be John's cheerleader, too. I got him to spend more than two minutes inhaling each meal, and sometimes in the final, excruciating moments of a hot yoga class I whisper for him not to grimace. I even got to help a little bit in this whole crazy transcontinental job search.
I like to think we're winning in this, each giving the other what's needed. So check us out.
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