A Comfort Zone
I still don't understand electricity. This language of currents and something moving through the air to light what is at the other end. My husband understands everything about electricity and gadgets and the mechanics of everything. That is his comfort zone. He is less so with large groups of people, those he doesn't know. With dancing and the unexpected. Even now, after being together so long, I am sometimes bewildered at what can throw him off the steady, predictable path he always prefers.
I don't think he understands, though he now accepts and sometimes admires, my willingness - even when cautious - to move from my comfort zone of knowingness to being even slightly bewildered by what might come next. Walking out in to the world of the unknown holds the promise of excitement for me. Even if only to find a different route, a new group of people, or something foreign on a menu , I am the one more than willing to adjust the parameters of my comfort zone.
But my zone also reverberates with a hesitancy of its own. It is not clear of fear or trepidation. Robert isn't afraid to take medications long after their expiration date so clearly stated. I periodically riffle through the piles and discard. He finds them in the trash and tucks them away. Leftovers haunt me, and my zone has no space for anything left too long to fester in the fridge.
I want life to be less predictable, he would prefer it to be more so. Our zones overlap, at least. We sorted through lots of overcrowded drawers when a shared zone was forced upon us two years ago as Covid invaded everyone’s comfort zone. Sorting through outdated manuals, gadgets whose purpose even he could not discern, remnants of our other dog's life which reminded us only of the pain of losing her. We found in this cleansing a zone we could both equally inhabit. It held us for a while. But then I longed to be back in the world as he relished, as the proverbial introvert, this Covid excuse to stay put, alone, with distance.
I don't understand electricity, the mysteries of the Cloud, and where the photos reside on my laptop. He doesn't understand why liquids should be measured in the glass, Pyrex instead of the stainless cups, and quarters and thirds. I don't understand how he can forget to call his son whereas he wonders at how Nico and I can stay on the phone for over an hour. We love them each and both, but the comfort zones with our own children are vastly different.
When we met I was sure there was no delineation between us. That I had found my missing piece. Like the Shel Silverstein tale which my therapist from long ago had given me in consolation when I divorced my first husband. To remind me that I was whole, that nothing was missing, When I met Robert I went back in time to the wanting phase. A partner, a father for Nico, someone to love me more than I loved myself. Gradually as we evolved, I was confident enough to see that we were not always living in the same zone.
Luckily, our combat zone has always been small, or at least short lived. We live in the naturally segregated world of white, middle-class San Francisco, but we would never knowingly prevent others from entering our zone. But these zones we do not share with each other no longer threaten me. I don't understand electricity, but I finally understand that my husband and I can be very different and still share the comfort, if not the zones we each inhabit.