Say it With Me

Say it With Me

It’s Wednesday night, and the kids and I are holding one of our (now-regular) Family Dance Parties. Chris Brown’s “Say it With Me” blares from my iPod speakers.  Fiona, Finley and I jump in a circle, singing (Fiona and I) and yelling (Finley) the refrain: “Say it With Me, Say it With Me, Baby…” I bounce onto the tile patio and face the ocean across the street: “Say it With Me!” The ocean whooshes and rumbles her reply. I turn up the music. Can anyone coming over the rise above the beach see me? I’m too blissed to care.

At that moment, Pete strides into the living room. Dapper in his flight school uniform, with the short-sleeved white shirt (he actually irons them), navy and gold epaulets and navy pants. I want to jump him the way you want to jump someone whose looks, warmth and scent give you nerve-deep shivers – the kind you get during a really good massage when, suddenly, the therapist's hands palpitate your scalp.

The only jumping we’ll do for now is to the music’s beat. Earlier, the kids had asked me about my favorite song. While I can’t pick just one (Level 42’s “Something About You” remains a favorite), Brown’s is stuck in my head – a pleasant ear worm I’ve no desire to exterminate.

The kids’ dancing expresses vitality, their no-moment-but-now-ness. I’m dancing because finality eludes me – permanent residency, part-time job, rental house where we can stay at least an entire year –  it’s like I’ve unwittingly joined a Kiwi craps game and I’m waiting to see if the dealer rolls Snake Eyes or Boxcars. Wondering if I’ve placed the right bet (should I have gone with Hard Six?).

You don’t know, do you? That’s why I heed the Gospel According to Jamiroquai when (in the song “Canned Heat”) he sings, “Nothing left for me to do but dance.”

Fiona and I clasp hands and hop. Finley crawls between my legs like an obsessive-compulsive puppy.

The song finishes, and the kids continue DJ-ing and dancing inside. Pete grabs a beer, I pour myself a wine, and we sit outside. He has the ‘I have news’ look.

“Well, how was work?” I ask, wondering if I want to hear the answer. Pete’s work at the local flight school has seen (pardon the pun) a lot of turbulence the past year. Major drama for minor pay.

Pete says, “I lost my stripes today,” as he pulls off his epaulets. “And I lost my job.”

Anger starts crackling in my chest like an unprotected patch of skin sizzling in New Zealand’s sun. “I knew it!” I say. “They don’t deserve you. There’s something really wrong…”

Pete stops me before I can continue my rant. “I lost my old job because I got a new one. I’m the new manager.”

I refrain from shaking him for his 30-second deception and whoop, instead, with delight, “Oh, honey! I’m sooo happy for you. I can’t believe it!

I hug him. My Petey – the man who was still a flight student and sometimes-instructor when I met him; the one who lived with four flat mates in the house behind us, the bulk of whose time, it seemed, consisted of watching movies on the flat panel TV in his room. That Petey. He’s still the same guy, only the person I once perceived as Handsome Slacker works overtime each day in the service of students from all over the world whose dream, like his, is flying.

I used to drive past Pete’s place en route to the kids’ school and peak at whether his car was there. I’d emit a little sigh when it was, thinking the-guy-has-no-kids-he-should-be-busting-his-ass. Now, he’s busting his (sweet) ass partly because he lives with me and my kids.  We don’t see him as much as we’d like. 

The days of Pete and I making love mid-day are over – for now. Those employed full-time can’t shag in the middle of the day – unless they possess excess pep and  take lunch breaks (neither of which Pete has these days).

I remind Pete I fell for him when he had no job (though I prefer my partner to have some form of employment, mostly because I like the house to myself while the kids are in school) but tell him I’m proud - happy his long hours and dedication in the absence of validation have finally earned recognition.

Pete explains the latest unfolding of the soap opera that’s creating the restructuring of his work place. He pauses mid-sentence: 

“There’s your song,” he says.

Level 42. Something About You.

We know this promotion creates new challenges – more demands on Pete’s time, a drain on his mental energy. It won’t be easy. And he still wants to make the airlines, which will require a Dreamliner’s worth of delegation so he can earn hours in the air.

Come on, Snake Eyes...

So much uncertainty. That’s why you dance.

Say it With Me.