LOVE, ACTUALLY

Opposites are Attractive

More than four decades ago, I met my Valentine

The man’s a Sagittarius — the Archer, who’s half human, half horse. A Fire Sign, I’m told.

My Taurus —the Bull, an Earth Sign, with Scorpio ascendant and the Sun in the 7th House — is thought to be incompatible with Moker’s more passionate astrological emblem.

Turns out I’m the one who’s inclined to turn up the heat on causes I care about. Moker, except when he’s had a couple beers, is a lot more quiet in a Scandinavian kind of way — passion isn’t really part of his portfolio.

I do believe someone got their stars crossed, because the two of us plan to celebrate our 47th Valentine’s Day this week.

When we first met toward the end of 1975, I dug boys with longish hair. Even Moker’s sideburns were trimmed up short. A conservative dork? That’s what I thought.

He golfed. I thought golfers were dweebs, and went for guys who played drums in rock bands — of course, the over-developed torso was my main vibe.

He hadn’t voted since he’d turned 18 and was eligible. I couldn’t wait to help change the world.

He was from Wisconsin. I didn’t know the difference between Wisconsin and Minnesota — until I learned they were rivals in more than football.

I was from Texas. He thought we all had cattle, or at least a burro or a goat or two, on our acreage out on the North 40. The first time he came to visit my family in Dallas, the man who grew up in a tiny little burg in the Upper Midwest learned what a city can be.

And speaking of going Uptown, he abhorred New York — even before he visited. I interned in the Big Apple the summer between my junior and senior years of college, so fully expected to end up there some day. I didn’t — and we didn’t — but that’s OK, too.

Moker loves plays and poetry — an English Lit major — but detests Broadway musicals for some strange reason. My favorite celebration memories center around traveling on the Amtrak from D.C. to NYC, and when we arrived, noshing on pizza, bagels, gelato, hot dogs and other street food. Moker and I would splurge one night on an expensive spread, and at least one — if not two — musicals were always on the agenda.

Oh, and he hates actress Shirley MacLaine for some strange reason. I’ve adored Ms. MacLaine the totality of her career I’ve been around for, from The Pajama Game and The Trouble with Harry, through Steel Magnolias and even her appearances on Glee. In fact, Terms of Endearment just about ripped my soul apart, and is the one reason — even beyond the current pandemic — I won’t go to see tear-jerkers in a movie theater. Too much drama — on my part.

BTW — in case you haven’t already guessed — Moker wined and dined me in New York for my 35th birthday. We stayed at William Randolph Hearst’s Warwick Hotel, ate at Windows on the World atop the 107th floor of the World Trade Center’s North Tower (jackets required for men — something Moker usually isn’t into at all), and took in Shirley MacLaine on Broadway, the mega-star’s one-woman show.

The trip was so over-the-top and fantabulous, I count it as one of our best adventures — ever.

Yes, you’d probably say the two of us hew to the age-old maxim, “opposites attract.” But I prefer to say if one gives a little, one gets more than she ever expected.

We’ve been on plenty of golf vacations. He tees it up each day, and I hang by the pool or the beach. Sounds like the best kind of compromise to me.

He watches interminable hours of football on the telly — an activity that often numbs my mind and dulls my spirit — but does the laundry while he’s yelling about fumbles and failed extra points, so that’s a plus.

He told me long ago he hates long drives — which, with my Texas spirit and all, I adore — but we travel seven hours to North Carolina’s Outer Banks a few times each year. OK, he’s got a few favorite OBX golf spots, and has been known to hit the sandy links once we get there.

And I’ve driven with him to the mountains more than once in the fall to watch the vivid changing of the colors. Yeah, they look like dead leaves to me, but the seasonal spectacle speaks to his roots in the middle of the country.

Above all, I come from a traveling family. I’ve visited six continents, and countless cathedrals, palaces, pagodas and yurts. Moker, til he met me, didn’t really take to long trips. I’ve got just three spots left on my “bucket list” — all in the United States. Maybe Moker will agree to make the endless drive to either Niagara Falls, Maine or Key West. Or maybe he’ll travel with me to all three.

Oh, and in case you’ve been wondering — the snap above was taken in the middle of the night on our way back from Hawaii. Our plane had been plagued by a bird-strike, so we ended up in San Francisco.

With nothing to do but put on his shades and doze in the brightly lit airport pavilion, Moker took full advantage. If you’re stranded for eight hours with your life partner, the way he handles this bump in the road says a lot about how he’ll handle your journey through life.

I don’t remember what we did our first VD — but since we went to a lot of movies back in the day, that’s a good guess.

I do remember a steak dinner once in college at the local Holiday Inn — a luxury which went right through me, if you want to know the truth. High-end comestibles wreaked havoc on my insides, which were used to more pedestrian fare like SpaghettiOs.

And then there was the Loco Moco Moker dined on outside Honolulu one morning. The white rice, topped with a grilled hamburger, fried eggs and brown gravy, along with other delicacies, wasn’t for me, even though it‘s known as “local cuisine.” I had pancakes, which lent a sweet touch to my side of our foodie adventure that day.

We’re much more low-key these days. Moker’s promised a pizza delivery for Valentine’s Day. I might bake a chocolate cake with fudge icing. Strictly a “box cake,” as my Nana would dismissively say, but it’s good enough for us.

All those decades seem to have mellowed us out. But I always knew opposites were attractive.