Simple Maths

In 15 days, Stuart will have his interview at the US Embassy in London. They will be the final step in the process we began 100 days ago - applying for a K-1 fiancee visa for Stuart to move here.

In 16 days, we will (fingers crossed for success) be buying a ticket for Stuart to arrive in early October. This time, it's an open-ended ticket. There won't be posts about spending 4, or 5, or 6 days together. This time, it's for good.

In early October, I will have had the luminous presence of this man in my life for a grand total of 220 days.

Since then, 99% of my days have started with a phone call from him, and his days have ended with a goodnight phone kiss from me. We have chatted, texted, sent letters, written emails, and left voice messages in the intervening hours.

Of the 220 days we've known each other, only 20 of those have been spent basking in each other's company. I sleep at night knowing that in 20 days, we spent 28,800 minutes deliriously happy to be in each other's company, each other's arms.

But even the remaining 200 days, that I have spent far away from Stuart, that have been hard and required putting a smile on or remembering a joke or tender moment, or even just calling a friend to complain about how much I miss him ... every minute of those 200 days has been worth it, too. Because I've been happy, even if I'm crying.

And that's 288 thousand minutes of happy.

And as far as math goes, that ain't bad.

But for now, we are young,
let us lay in the sun
and count every beautiful thing that we see...

We're both up at eight fifteen, carrying shoulder bags full of lotion, wraps, hair clips, books, sunglasses. Bikinis under tank tops and skirts - Kate's white, mine Hawaiian. We walk down the street to meet Jen at the subway, "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" still running through our heads. We pat ourselves on the back for knowing that Sunday would be beautiful, for having faith through the downpour of Saturday. We gaze up at the crisp blue sky with it's crown of morning sun and feel very self-satisfied indeed.

**

"Beach!"
"Beach!"
It's the greeting du jour, as the seven of us throw our towel-laden arms around each other in greeting at Penn Station. We muck about getting tickets and looking for platform numbers and drinking coffee. Kevin is new and still blends in seamlessly. Fish looks perfectly upper-east-side and cute enough to bite. Jen's excitement is palpable and Biscuit's sort of jumping around like a puppy. Mike took the day off and Kate and I sit there mock-fighting about how many miles wide Manhattan is. She was almost completely right, it turns out.

I don't mind, though.
"Beach!"

**

My cowboy hat, being passed around on the train, ends up on Fish's fair head from the moment we get to the beach. We strip down from tee shirts and shorts and skirts and Biscuit runs down to the water as soon as his flip flops are off.

I stand next to the towels with my toes digging into the sand. Flopping down on my red wrap, I ask the general public to remind me that my beloved toe ring is tucked safely in my wallet zipper pocket. I stand up again, throw my sunglasses to the sand, and race to the water.

**

We're lying on our stomachs, sun gliding lazily over our backs.

"I'll bet Osama hangs out in a resort," I say.
"Yeah. Tora Bora Resort. And Spa," says Kate.
"I mean, the man needs mudbaths."
"Mudbaths and facials."
"Mudbaths, facials, and Jihad."
"'What are you doing today, Osama?' 'Hm, four o clock mudbath, then we JIHAD!'"

Kate and I find this infinitely amusing. I'm rolling around on the white blanket, giggling and throwing out Osama reality show ideas. Kate starts doing funny accents. We're so bad for America.

**

I'm trying to get out a string of expletives over the fact that Harry is tickling my foot.

"Mother-"
A wave crashes into my face and I bob under only to come out and finish the sentence. Kevin points out that half the children that were frolicking around us are gone.

"Well, they pee in the water, we curse," says Kate.

Before I can laugh too hard, another wave comes and tosses my body into a tumble. I'm laughing under water and there are salt bubbles in my nose. But I don't mind.

**

Biscuit and Mike and I sit under the boardwalk, feeling somewhat rebellious even without the requisite making-out or pot-smoking. We watch the two young guys throw a ball back and forth as we lean into the shade of the creaky wooden planks above us and stretch our feet into the sand.

Later, Kate and I are walking along the shore. We talk about friends, and how nice Long Beach really is.

"It's nice to be wearing so little clothing, isn't it," I say. She agrees. We're quiet for a minute. We watch little kids run tirelessly in and out of the surf, parents half-heartedly watching them while scanning the horizon.

I realize it's grownups that scan the horizon for nothing in particular. Little kids are so caught up in the immediacy of the nature-made watercoaster that they don't often grasp the immensity beyond. Even as a child, when I played games with my cousin in Greece by "taunting Poseidon", it never occurred to me to simply stare at that sparklingly straight line and ponder its unique unending beauty.

There are some ways I don't mind being a grown-up, I think as we wander along the shore, toes digging in wet shifting sands.

**

Mike and I decide that the seagulls are plotting. They've ceased their cawing, swooping searches of the sky. They stand motionless, in a diamond formation, between two pylons at the top of the beach. Their ostensible leader, a brownish fellow with particularly shifty eyes even for a seagull, stands separated from the perfect formation, two feet in front of the diamond.

"What are they doing?" Mike asks.
"I don't know," I say, momentarily stunned by their military cunning.

We stand there for another minute, contemplating the force of evil we're clearly being faced with, when I realize what to do.

"Run." I say, and we run towards them, Mike and I, arms flailing and voices howling. The evil cadre of seagulls disperse, doubtless to regroup, assess damages, and meet elsewhere for their evil plottage. But we are satisfied. We walk back to wear Biscuit is standing, laughing at us.

"I've done my part for America today," I say. I'm pretty sure that cancelled out joking about Osama's jihad.

**

We talk long into the night at the Bohemian, still in bathing suits and patchy sunburns. We talk about cheezwhiz and musicals, friendship and glutens. The boys kiss each other cutely, Fish is convinced into several more Hoegardens. Kevin talks about his first day with the tribe, Kate and Jen tell cute grandparent stories, and I get a little emotional talking about Stuart. We discuss true love, eat keilbasa, and drink pitchers of beer until the sun has long gone and the weight of the day's fun and sand and laughter bears heavy on my shoulders.

We all kiss goodbye, at the bar and at the subway, and hug each other like we do every time we meet and part. I tell my friends I love them, because I do, and as I walk home with Kate and marvel at the Perfect Sunday and its components, I realize it's not just the sun and the sand and the bikinis and the jokes and the seagulls and the waves.

It's the company.