An Introduction

I informed Jenn not so long ago that if it wasn’t for her boobs—if she had been flat-chested, in other words—I likely would not be where I am today, that is, married to her and living in the dank, dripping Northwest. Shallow, I know, but true.

Four and a half years ago, I took a leap of faith, quit my job and left the high desert of New Mexico to take a break from the field of counseling and finish a book about the life (and death) of my father. I did not expect to be gone this long, not even remotely, not even a smidgeon, and I certainly never imagined that the area I would land would be a place so devoid of sunlight, so saturated with water, that its native inhabitants, slog umbrella-less into the seasonless world as they lean into sideways-blowing downpours. 

My wife has short red hair and fair skin. She loves the climate here, and though nothing in her resembles a New Age type (aside from the mildly unique preference of spelling her first name with two “N’s” instead of one), she has been known on occasion, generally during one of Oregon’s many rain showers, to talk in all seriousness of dancing water faeries and the like.

Native Oregonians scoff at transplants such as myself who pronounce Oregon phonetically, as if it rhymed with “origami” (sans the “i”), instead of using a more regional pronunciation, which sounds like Organ with the slightest hiccough of a "y" between the r and the g. 

Most Oregonians feel that protecting one’s head from downpours with strange, waterproofed, expandable devices are the supreme sign of wussie-dom. They view umbrellas, in fact, much like the apes in 2001--A Space Odyssey viewed the black obelisk that mysteriously appeared in their midst--with fear, wonder, and finally, aggression. One co-worker, who witnessed my approach toward our entrance beneath the shelter of an umbrella while sheets of rain fell from the sky, waited until I got inside before prancing down the hallway, mocking me as if I were a dancing monkey.

Back to point: Aside from a brief six-month stint in Central America her junior year in college, Jenn has never lived more than an hour from where she was born and raised in southeast Portland. Now, in less than one month, we will be moving to Albuquerque, New Mexico. We are doing so despite the fact that the desert is decidedly not her clime. It is, in fact, her anti-clime, with summer heat routinely topping a hundred degrees and a pulsing sun that beats down upon the head of all who tread along New Mexico's crunchy gravel.  Ironically, it may be this very sun that forces Jenn to finally push the aluminum runner over the top spring of a desert parasol, expanding its wooden stretchers in an effort to offer a bit of shade to her fair and easily freckled skin. There’s more: Neither of us has a job lined up as yet, though I do have what they refer to in literature as “promising leads.”

And more: Jenn is pregnant. Twenty weeks, to be exact, and starting to show. It will be the first child for both of us. Jenn, in fact, is the first woman i have ever lived with. This would not be noteworthy except for the fact that at the time we moved in together, I had recently turned 47 and had not been in a relationship longer than six months for nearly 15 years.

A handful of years ago, while on yet another painful blind date, I was asked point blank: "How come a man your age has never lived with a woman before?" It was a question to which I had no response, and after sputtering for a bit I shrugged my shoulders and told her I had no idea. What might I have said if I had voiced my unspoken thoughts? I suck with women, secretly suspect I'm damaged goods, and now have been alone for so long that I can't picture living any other way. Needless to say, there was no second date.

When I reached 41, I promised myself that if by my mid-forties I had not at least met the woman with whom I wanted to spend my life, I would forgo parenthood forever. Yet here I am, a fifty-year-old father-to-be, wedded to a saucy 36 year-old jewelry maker who is the least guarded, most available woman I have ever been with.  It was, in fact, her availability that nearly torpedoed the relationship before it even left the dock. I have always had an unerring nose for unavailable women, and couldn't help but wonder about Jenn what my blind date had wondered about me lo these many years ago (i.e. what was wrong with this person?). And yeah, okay, maybe this was the pot calling the kettle black, since on our first date I wore a straw hat, a pair of Bermuda shorts, Teva sandals, and white socks, but still. 

Had I not been intrigued by Jenn's other charms (read: boobs), I would already have sailed back to New Mexico, would probably still be single, and spending my Saturday nights alone, eating Reduced Fat Ruffle Potato Chips, watching movies, playing marimba, and going for late night walks. This may be hard to believe, but I don't miss that life a whole lot.

This blog, then, among other things, will be a running diary of an middle aged, future-father’s journey into parenthood.  Blessings.