Yes, I was married on a Friday, but in this instance, I am speaking of being married on a Friday. This Friday.
I am on my laptop in the living room of our one-bedroom apartment. The couch I’m sitting on is the Asian/woven-looking red and black one we bought for $15. The sun must be setting because the world is a frozen blue-gray outside the picture window.
Periodically my husband asks me to get up and help him with something: he is crafting our bed, and has hardly used anything but hand tools. It is made of a creamy oak, and his methods make me think of the Amish, whom I greatly admire.
By the way, he is also making the bed in the living room. After all, it’s not like we have a wood shop.
This is my life at this moment: wood and cloth projects–crochet, carpentry–listening NPR or Cities 97 or a book on CD because we don’t have and don’t want a TV, thinking about ethnicity, thinking about grad school, thinking about grammar, making plans.
I think it is good, this life we are making for ourselves. Very good.