Lesson 15: Don't Underestimate the Freedom of Dependence

The key to a healthy relationship requires the balance of independence, dependence, and interdependence. Nathan and I have been historically good at interdependence. On Team Omick, I'm the Offensive Coordinator. I keep the ball moving. Fetch groceries. Pay bills. Clean house. Nathan's the Defensive Coordinator. Nathan keeps the competition in check and protects our offensive gains. Maintains our beloved vehicles, wiggles our way out of overdraft fees, that kind of thing.

Independence has been good, too. By nature, Nathan radiates independence. Left home at eighteen for a world trip on an air craft carrier. Select true blue friends. Likes at least an hour of alone time a day. I'm not gonna lie, independence was inside me, just buried...deep. Hiding. Don't get me wrong. I'm the first to admit my outspokenness. And my possibly stringent daily plans. And my liking for having things my way (simply, by the way, because they make the most sense). But true independence didn't find me until after we got married. Before then, the main thing I had passion for was, well, Nathan. My theory: for one to have independence, one needs passion. For anything. Something yours. That you do with just you. That feels right and natural.

Before I found independence in social work, in writing, in cooking, in these and other untapped resources, I was, well, rather clingy. Just wanted to do what he was doing. Be where he was. Saw what he saw. On occasion, would even get The Sads or The Crabbies when he'd leave for a night out with the boys. Even maybe somehow would convince myself it was so totally okay to be annoyed/pissed/depressed when he had to study. The studying thing really did me over. A little advice for any significant other of a chiropractic student: makes friends outside the chiro circle. If you don't you end up alone:

1.) While they have to study for finals,

2.) While they all have to go to seminars and other stuff like that and,

3.) While they all have to study for four national board exams.

And it is here, that the fun story begins. Rewind to a murky March evening in 2003. Nathan and all his "doctor friends" were at the library studying for the most difficult test of their academic careers: Spinal Anatomy. (Doesn't the sound of that just make you dry heave?) Since pretty much anyone I associated with was at Palmer Chiropractic College, I turned to my three closest friends, Me, Myself, and I, in hopes they knew where independence lived in my bod. Started from scratch contemplating things I enjoyed. Like shopping, but had like no money. Like travelling, but still had like no money. Like primping, and had like a TON of that stuff. Tweezers, facial kits, nail poilsh. If there's one thing I knew how to do, it was how to make myself feel pretty. Especially after looking like a drowned rat sinking in I Have No Friends In Iowa Besides Stupid To Be Doctors And I'm So Lonely Poor Me Lake. But alas! I spied a raft! Pink, shiny, Maybelline.

It was settled. As I gathered up my pedicure supplies in my very first apartment, I couldn't help but feel proud of myself. Doing my own thing while Nathan did his. Just trusty old Brett and I, watching Moulin Rouge while rouging up my nails. I plopped my plump bottom on my caved-in charcoal gray love seat. Pulled my black fake-wood mini coffee table in front of me. Laid out all the goodies: big bowl brimming with warm suds, pumice stone, exfoliating peppermint foot scrub, orange stick, cuticle trimmers, nail clippers, nail buffer, nail file, peppermint cooling gel, base coat, polish, top coat, quick dry, finishing oil. And lit candles. Then I soaked. I scrubbed. I primed. I polished. And then, I panicked.

Heard a-rustlin' in the kitchen. Brett's a-perkin' ears did, too. Thought it was the wind, leaves, etc. outside. Rustled again. Hmm. With new found independence on my side, I decided to handle this curiosity on my own, though the phone practically screamed, "Hide in the closet and call Nathan!" I told myself it must just be a bird. Luckily and randomly, I had some bird experience during my college job. One got in the candy shop I worked in (and I wonder why I am tainted as a Weight Watchers drop-out) and my boss and I led it out swooshing a broom up in the air toward the door. Even though I had a mini panic attack that whole time, I survived and decided I would survive again. With my wet toes and Brett's wet nose, we headed toward the kitchen to sniff out the situ. Didn't see a thing. Thought, "Awww...it's a cute little baby birdie scared and hiding without his mama." Before I could start seeking, the rustling re-emerged with an eight-inch wing span. And ears. And fangs.

My bird was an f-ing bat. My scream was a bona-fide horror movie shriek. I bolted back into the makeshift spa/living room. Heart pounding. Vomit coming. Eyes bulging. HAD to get out ASAP. HAD to rescue my dog from rabies and all. And then I wondered, hey, where is my dog? I tip-wet-toed toward the makeshift bat cave/kitchen, peeked around the corner to find Brett completely still, not blinking, staring up toward the key hook to the right of the door. Perched upside down above my key hook, and consequently, my keys, hung Benny (I named him). Taking a snooze. Or more likely planning his attack. I quickly recoiled back around the corner, panting, and as you can imagine, muttering profanities. Brett didn't move. We were trapped!

Don't know how I did it. Sacrificed my yet wet pedicure for my safety. Still winter, I had to put on shoes AND socks. Managed to skip on the jacket, though. Didn't even grab my purse. Now, for the keys, I developed a plan:

1.) Unlock my car doors through the living room window using my remote opener.

2.) Unlock the kitchen/front door.

3.) Grab the keys.

4.) Call Brett while sprinting down two flights of stairs, hoping he would follow and Benny wouldn't.

5.) Pile into my car.

6.) Speed to the library.

7.) Find Nathan.

8.) Send him home with instructions to kill.

Did #1. Did #2. And then for #3, the riskiest step. I hoped for the best, but realized:

1.) Benny could latch onto my hand, suck my blood, give me rabies, and I would die.

2.) Benny could fly into my hair causing a severe panic attack which would induce fatal hyperventilation.

3.) Benny could fly away.

4.) Benny could be a sound sleeper.

Hoping for #4, I took a deep breath, grabbed they keys, flung open the door, called Brett and ran down the stairs, got into my car, and got the hell out of there.

In the two minutes it took me to get to the library, I managed to use every cuss word I'd ever heard at least twice. Parked my ride, jetted into the libes. I could feel my socks sticking to my polished and mushed toenails. Frantically scanned the study cubicles on the second floor. No Nathan. More profanities. Third floor. Passed familiar Palmer faces, blurred with fury. Heard and ignored, "Hey, Maggie's." On a mission. Located target. Debriefed Agent Omick. Others listened on, jaws opening wider as the story unfolded. Nathan, sporting his typical studying gear, khaki cargos and and old black hoodie, sat stunned. He looked at me and said, "The bad news is..." and flipped up his hood, "I hate bats." Didn't matter. He was much braver than I. He hunts. He bungee jumps. He's a boy for Pete's sake! I depended on him to handle scary situations. And bats were WAY scarier than Spinal Anatomy.

We trekked back to the Bat Cave. Decided I'd had my fair share of Benny. Sent my boys up to save me while I smoked at least seven ciggs in the safety of my car. Brett didn't miss a beat and beat Nathan upstairs, ready to kick some bat ass. I kissed my brave boy toy potentially good-bye. I waited. I watched. Saw a hooded silhouette through the living room window holding a broom. Heard barking. Heard battling, as in the broom, not Benny. Saw a hooded knight coming down the outside steps. Gave me the go-ahead to come in.

The inside story goes as follows: Brett had gone right to Benny's key location only to find him gone! Then his wet nose led him to Benny's new locale -- the blinds of the living room window. Brett guarded the new Bat Cave as Nathan rounded up the broom, his weapon of choice. Having a panic attack all his own, he wound up with all his might, and in one fell swoop, squished Benny to smitherines. So there you have it: Agent Omick, with the broom stick, in the living room.

Benny lives on, his blood on the blinds, a constant reminder of his time spent in my very first apartment. Benny taught me a lot. Interdependence can be comforting. Reassuring. Independence can be scary. And also refreshing. Dependence can be tricky. It can be clingy. But, in my case, freeing. Besides, isn't there just something incredibly sexy about a knight in sweatshirt armor?