I have rather a thing for the actor Daniel Craig, specifically as he portrays James Bond, and I’d venture to guess I’m not alone.
What woman can deny the appeal of a man so intriguing, so in control, so incredibly capable of handling whatever bad thing may barrel her way, like a unpinned grenade? Throw in the vulnerability Daniel Craig brings to the world’s coolest spy? You’ve got the ultimate package, right there.
I suppose such impervious women exist, but I’m not one of them, and I’ve not hidden the fact since I first saw the new 007 brandishing his Walther P99 in Casino Royale. (Yes, it’s true: I Googled that.)
My husband Andy doesn’t mind my infatuation, as it tends to surface only in the weeks preceding the release of a new Bond film. I imagine he has his own celebrity crushes as well, but has the sense I lack to keep such thoughts to himself, Lara Croft: Tomb Raider notwithstanding.
I would have preferred, however, for him not to learn, a few years back, the extent of my obsession in quite the way he did.
Having wasted the better part of an hour trolling the internet for photos of the actor, I figured, why not print off a few for future perusal? These choice exemplars I then hid in the pocket of an old down coat I wear when feeding our porch cats or digging around in the garage.
This act of foolishness coincided with the purchase of my first iPhone, and Andy’s admonishments to look after the pricey device. Duly warned, I embarked on my weekly visit to Daniel the next day, stopping first at Whole Foods for a bagel for the road.
Daniel was in a fine mood, and I dug in my purse for my new camera-equipped phone. It wasn’t there. Upending my bag’s contents on the floor proved fruitless, as did a frantic search of my car. Well done, Kristen. This would never have happened to Moneypenny.
Using the phone at Daniel’s group home, I called my daughter, instructing her to drop everything and contact Whole Foods to see if they’d found the phone there. Having done all I could do for the moment, I returned to Illinois, phoneless, photoless, feckless.
Meanwhile, Andy returned from work to find Natalie’s scrawled note on the kitchen counter: “Whole Foods — Mom’s phone??” Dismayed, he launched a preemptive house-wide search, through sofa cushions, kitchen cabinets, drawers, seldom-used purses on the back of my closet door. And the pockets of every coat I own.
Including my old down jacket.
I can’t remember where the phone eventually turned up, a detail eclipsed by my humiliation at the discovery of my secret Bond stash by the grinning, thoroughly amused man to whom I’ve been married for 16 years today.
It wasn’t easy for Andy to make a commitment to marriage after 42 years of bachelorhood. It took years for me to fully understand his fears, his doubt at his ability to successfully assume the responsibilities inherent in legally binding himself to another person, and her two children, as well.
His devotion was never in question, as he demonstrated his love for all three of us in ways both tangible and implied. I didn’t understand his concerns as I should have; I saw only the man I knew him to be: one of insight and integrity, of quiet humility and strength.
His wariness was painful, though, as he faltered toward the covenant I valued, as a woman and the mother of young children. My ego was bruised; I wanted to be a catch he was eager to snag, not an appendage reluctantly assumed at the altar. I wanted to be Helen of Troy.
Marriage after 40, I learned, is challenging. We both had expectations, dreams already lost and mourned. But we’ve made it so far.
And I’ve come to realize that his reluctance proved more meaningful than heedless enthusiasm ever could have done. He was afraid to get married, but did it anyway. He made one of the most difficult decisions of his life, for me.
Not the fairy tale l’d concocted, certainly. Yet those have a way of tarnishing over time. And while the years since our eventual union have offered more challenges than even he dreaded, he remains.
Not Daniel Craig, perhaps. But, Andy, you’re my James Bond in all the ways that matter.
You didn’t bail when a financial planner told us years ago to expect to pay privately for Daniel’s longterm care, that 80 grand a year for the rest of his life was a conservative guess.
You painted Natalie’s bedroom three times in the house you didn’t want to buy in the first place to achieve the perfect shade of yellow, even though no one could tell the difference but me.
You laid across my hospital bed after my unexpected surgery, cradling me while I cried out in pain. You recognized the bond I shared with my father, although you met him just briefly before he died. You held my grief as my mother was lost, inch by inch, to Alzheimer’s; you were the one to wake me gently in the night, to tell me my brother had called, and our mother was gone.
You schlepped to music recitals and theater performances, to therapy sessions and IEPs, from elementary to high school, to schools miles away from home. You’ve dragged boxes and dressers and mattresses into dorm rooms and first apartments; you’ve soothed disappointments and set backs, the first tender ache of a broken heart.
Your arrival home in the evenings brought Daniel running from his bubbles and videos, laughing and joyous, to greet you. You taught him to wipe his face with a napkin, and knotted his tie before eighth grade graduation.
It was you who patiently coaxed him through the door of his school in Wisconsin on that fraught, fretful day eight years ago, so he’d be entering his new home on his own terms.
You taught Natalie to drive when I was too freaked to do so; you sat up in those late hours when I was spent for the day, guiding her through the torments of adolescence; you shouldered the cost of graduate school so she wouldn’t be saddled with debt as she entered adulthood.
You held fast during that ghastly meeting with the psycho attorney, when the stakes were so dreadfully high, and endured my screaming in rage and bitterness and fear all the way home from Milwaukee.
You consoled me after a friend I adored turned on me, crushing my spirit and confidence, rueful that you hadn’t been there to protect me from her scorn.
Strapped to a stretcher in the back of an ambulance after our car crash in Wisconsin, you implored paramedics to look after your wife and stepson, because in his agitation, our son might hurt me.
You’ve submitted to innumerable, spontaneous readings of prose I happen to find fascinating, usually during a crucial movie sequence; you’ve helped clarify my thoughts when I couldn’t understand them myself, much less express them coherently in words.
You’ve never once in 19 years said a negative word about my first husband, and have built a solid, generous relationship with him, and his wife; you attended the baptism of their twins, spending most of the ceremony in the parking lot with an uncooperative Daniel, because you understood that Dan should be there, as part of the family.
You told me that as stepfather, you will always defer to my parental authority, but have borne every thorny problem of parenthood by my side.
You assumed a responsibility you never thought you wanted, and have lived up to it every day. You became a man you didn’t intend to become, and are man enough to admit that you are grateful for having done so. And as my partner, you’ve made me more than I was before.
For years, when I’ve been scared, you’ve told me, “Relax, sweetheart. You’re golden. You’re in God’s pocket.”
I have my doubts about that sometimes. But no matter.
I’ve got you in mine. I’ve got you.
