Yesterday was one of those cinematic, sun-gorged New Mexico days when the sky is vast and the mountains all intricately lit and you understand why people never leave.
It was also the beginning of our Spring Break: I coerced S into setting aside her grading for the afternoon and taking a walk with me.
As we strolled (and yes, after approximately three and a half minutes of jogging we did stroll) around a big loop of sandy desert trail, she let out a deep exhale.
“So much big sky,” she said, nodding her head right and left. “So little men.”
I turned to her. “Is that a line from a movie?”
“No. I just said it.”
“Oh.” We continued along, deep in contemplation of this cryptic yet profound observation.
A few moments later both of us turned at the sight of a sprightly, impressively lean male runner coming toward us–bouncing along with a small brown-haired boy on either side. They all looked vaguely ethnic and vaguely good-looking, but moved too quickly for an honest gauge.
S and I looked back toward each other and exchanged dramatic puppy faces.
“Man,” I exclaimed. “It’s just so hard to not always be looking for a husband!”
“I know,” S replied. “I know.”
And then we proceeded to spend our Saturday night on the couch: drinking Amstel light, eating ravioli and watching six hours of “Angels in America” until one in the morning with the sole company of an anemic nineteen-year-old cat.
At this point–twenty-six, single, in our fertile prime, and exhausted–it is hard not to always be looking. But it’s also hard to always look.