Until Larry, that is.
Larry’s been with me – literally – through thick and thin. I met Larry in 1992 when I weighed 149. He told me he used to stare at my legs in church when he should have been listening to the sermon. We were just friends then, but he was and still is a guy and I get all goose-pimply when he reminds me, no matter how much time goes by.
Anyway, we started dating in 1996 and I weighed 180. I ate a little more, and by the time we married two years later I weighed 200. No matter, Larry still loved me (and my legs). By 2004, I weighed 300 pounds and wasn’t real fond of myself. Yet Larry was still loving me, even when I didn’t understand why. But in 2005, I trusted his (our) love and used it to get me through the next few years of losing weight and dealing with all the crap I’d shoved under the rug for years.
Now here I am at 120-something and nearly six years from 300. I’m still married to Larry because I figured out that good love is like a good roasting pan. The longer you use it, the better it gets, even if it looks rough around the edges and you can’t get all the gunk out. That gunk adds flavor because it forms a barrier to the newness. New is good, but seasoned is better. Patience is rewarded with the sweetness that comes from longevity. Like an aged roasting pan, a relationship can better handle new ingredients because of all the time spent curing the foundation. The end result is a more seasoned product – one that tastes better than originally imagined and despite any imperfections.
The only way I know to describe all this musically is the second movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 (Pathetique). So I’ll leave you with this interpretation and bid you a good night. I’m headed to the Gateway Lodge for dinner tomorrow night for a romantic dinner, the place Larry and I spent our first married night together. I’ve decided we’re having the Guinness Chocolate Cheesecake for dessert…among other things.