18 HERCULES

The year was 1988. I was twelve years old, entering seventh grade, teasing my bangs, and wearing Hammer pants. And he was… actually, he wasn’t.

Not yet.

Not until that December.

Then he was.

He was born.

I joke in my stand-up set and in my last book about dating a younger man, but in my defense, this has never been a conscious “thing” for me. I am not a cougar. Eww. Gross. Stop.

I have always “dated my age” or close to it. I have not always, however, dated my IQ level. I did not set out looking to date someone younger. If you do, it’s you for it, as my granddaddy used to say. No judgment here. It’s just never been the way I’ve taken.

Until now…

For almost four years postdivorce, I had only two loves in my life: my son and my daughter. I was 2 million percent devoted to a fault and felt at the time that their little hearts and minds had no room for anyone else. They had zero bandwidth and even less for understanding how or why they should have to welcome a total stranger into our lives after a trauma like the one they had experienced. I knew that they would not be able to piece together a life of stability with Mommy dating, so for me at the time, it was a nonoption.

Next to having to live with my parents for three months when I was forty, dating again was the weirdest experience of my life. I had no clue how or what or when, and the idea of having to learn just about made me want to eat glue. I decided to give it a go, but the constant fears of getting something stuck in my teeth at dinner or having to potentially kiss somebody good night after a date made me take a dating break.

Enter comedy life.

The year was 2018.

I was going on the sixth month of my comedy career—traveling three to four days a week, working on my set, doing stand-up for the first time in my life in front of total strangers. My manager decided it was time to tour, whatever that meant. Tour required a team of people with fancy job descriptions who would critique my performances, help me hone my set, design a stage, and then present me with an overload of information until I cried, so that I could be successful, of course. Included in this group of important people was a production manager named Stephen. I met him in May. He came to my house with my program director, Pepper, to present his ideas for my set design. He set up his slide show and talked about all the things he had been working on, and I’m sure it was all really important.

I wouldn’t know.

All I knew was that he was way cuter than this PowerPoint presentation he was trying to show me in all his professionalism.

“Thank you so much, Stephen. This has been so insightful. Speaking of sight, your eyes are maybe the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And so dark. Can you see into my soul with those things? Can you tell that I think you’re cute? Please say no.”

I knew he had to be every bit of thirty-five, which was well within my range. He was tall and dark and handsome and Indian and intelligent and kind and well spoken, so something under the surface had to be very wrong.

Well, there goes that.

They left, and I went on with life, and that’s as far as it went… for a minute. I didn’t think much of it after that. After all, there are lots of cute guys out there. It’s gonna take more than some dark eyes and really good hair to make me think twice.

A few short weeks later, my team and I met in a Kroger parking lot in a town just east of Nashville to hop a bus and leave for tour. We, including Stephen, filled out all twelve individual bunks the bus held. We (they) loaded merch and bags and a million and one snacks, and at midnight we headed out and drove all night to our first stop. Even though Stephen was now a 24/7 part of my road life, my focus had shifted from my recent day crush to honing my comedy set and drawing the crowds. I was in awe of this team and this life, and I was ready to do hard work, weeks on the road away from my children. Sleeping in a bunk and not being able to use the bathroom on the bus should the urge hit me. There was a lot to focus on, so I didn’t really have time to be thinking about much else. Also, I was grown and busy and professional, and there was no time for such shenanigans.

Night 1 of bus life was a huge, fun success. We all laughed and talked and ate and drank like we had been together forever. The next day, the crew unloaded, the team worked tirelessly all day, and I focused on the night ahead. It was a sold-out crowd in Louisville, Kentucky, and as far as I could tell, it was a happy one. I had somehow managed a two-hour show, and by the time I finished meeting and greeting and showering and the team had finished loading out, it was almost midnight.

We all hopped back on the bus and started what would be a nightly unwinding full of continual conversations, loud music, and games. These fools love them some games. This process lasted hours into the night, as most of us were so wound-up from the day’s and night’s events that we were able to decompress more completely in our family setting than in our individual coffin-beds.

Somewhere around night 3, during one of our late-night unwindings, I found myself next to Production Manager Stephen. We were all in the throes of numerous conversations and “Name That Musician” when he and I found our way into our own little discussion. We talked about all the things—people and travels and work and family and music. I was over his cute face but at this point was very much into his brain and his philosophies. He knew something about everything. He had sincerity and goals, work ethic and leadership. He loved his family and all of humanity, and his kindheartedness and desire to know me had my interest. It was hard to hear over the loud Broadway musical numbers and constant chatter, but I heard him loud and clear after I officially, in my grown-up forty-two-year-old voice, asked him how old he was.

“Twenty-nine.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“I thought you said twenty-nine.”

“That’s right. I’m twenty-nine.”

TWENTY-NINE??? As in born in 1988, twenty-nine?

How is this even possible? Your receding gray hairline says you are every bit of thirty-five, and your knowledge of the French and Indian War and the way you religiously and carefully take out your contacts and brush your teeth every night say you’re all-day-long the internal ripe ol’ age of sixty-four.

Except… twenty-nine.

Well, that solves that. It’s been great talking to you, but since you are well under normal range, this conversation stops at global warming and skinny jeans.

Except that it didn’t.

We talked late into the night, long after the rest of the team had gone to their respective cocoons. It wasn’t awkward, because we didn’t notice. We were busy laughing and learning and listening. We talked about movies and politics and culture and God and played each other songs we loved from artists we respected, and right at the moment when he played me that song by Martin Sexton, there it was. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and right in that moment, we both knew. And I could only think one thing:

Oh, crap…

This is a thing. He’s twenty-nine, and I’m forty-two, and this is a thing.

I feel it. I can tell. This cannot be happening.

Not only was I graduating from high school when he was learning how to hold a crayon, but we work together! We live on this bus together, and this is not OK. Nope. Shut it down, girl. Don’t let your brain and your heart run away with you. Stay in reality. Stay focused. On your career, idiot! Not on him!

Somewhere around five A.M., we exchanged good nights and a smile that acknowledged the awkwardness of this situation. We hopped into our bunks for what felt like a solid two seconds. I tried to sleep, but thoughts of the night and my excitement for him to get to see me first thing the next morning kept me awake for the duration. If our age didn’t keep us apart, that would surely do the trick.

Except that it didn’t. Day in and day out for two solid weeks, we talked during the day. We talked all night. We ate together. We worked together. We explored cities together. We were… together. Everybody knew it, and finally, we did, too.

To the outside world, this probably looked like straight craziness, but to us, it just made total sense. He was an old twenty-nine, and I was a young forty-two, and somewhere in there we just met in the middle. We just needed to see about this thing. It was a risk, but it was a risk we were willing to take. I had two kids and a divorce under my belt, and are you sure, dude? Are you sure you even want to explore this? If you don’t, I understand. You can cut and run at any time.

If you knew how many times I offered and how many times he declined, you would love him, too.

He just wouldn’t leave. My thinning hair and sun spots just sucked him in. Days turned into weeks, but not without me offering him escape routes. Weeks turned into months, and on August 23, 2018, sometime around 7:32 P.M. Paris time, right there in front of the Eiffel Tower, he told me he loved me and that he had loved me since Little Rock in June. And somewhere around 4:41 P.M. Paris time on November 20, 2019, he told me again as he got down on one knee in that same spot and asked me to be his wife. This guy is everything I never knew I needed and everything I hoped was out there. And for the first time in my life, I feel exactly like I never have but always hoped I would. Happy.

Our relationship is one of the sweetest experiences of my life. It is not hard or burdensome, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have differences. We have an obvious age gap, but don’t let it fool ya. He falls asleep at 9:00 watching CNN, and I want to stay out late and have fun. His family is from India. Mine is from Redneckville, USA. He is brown. I am white. He is frugal. I like to shop. He is intentional and sensible. I live in my feels. But even though it may seem like there are reasons we shouldn’t work, there are a hundred more reasons we do. Besides the fact that I am obviously a picture-perfect partner, he brings a few things to this table, too. Besides your basics that should be staples in every good relationship, he also taught me how to eat rice and yogurt with my hands, and folks, that’s something money can’t buy. I have also been offered other invaluable gifts that I do not take for granted.

Honesty.

Respect.

Stability.

Health, and not just the physical kind.

Loyalty.

Fun.

Patience to work out old wounds.

Safety to heal. To fail. To try new things.

Strength.

Tenderness instead of rage.

Partnership in place of control.

Admiration.

Encouragement.

Room to unpack any leftover baggage.

Family. His—the ones who pull me in and love me in spite of my history, and the ones I love back and call mine.

He challenges me and makes me think. He listens to me. He disagrees with me. He believes differently from how I do about certain issues, but he lets me be me. He values my thoughts and my opinions and my life. He’s real and genuine. He loves my children. He teaches and listens and guides. He cares about other people. And he invests. In himself and others. In me.

He thinks I’m beautiful without makeup. He loves my cooking and always thanks me for my efforts. He mops and vacuums and dances while he does it. He never says a bad word about anybody, and when he tells me how much he loves and appreciates me, he means it. Please know that he also puts his pants on one flat foot at a time, OK? He is not perfect. He gets frustrated and anxious, and one time, he didn’t really like the fish I cooked for dinner, and he let me know about it (rude). But he is my match in every way, and I would rather listen to him tell me all about 4G and the new Apple Keynote than to ever be without him.

Despite everything I’ve just written, I’m not here to fluff him up. I’m here to fluff YOU up. I’m here to tell you that good men exist. Good women exist. Good partners exist. They may not come packaged the way you think they will. They may not be old enough or pretty enough or smart enough, whatever that even means. They may wear skinny jeans and talk too much about the electoral college. But they’re out there. If you will work on getting yourself healthy, I believe that person will come your way. They always say it’s when you least expect it, and I think they’re right. You may find the love of your life and the greatest risk you’ve ever taken sitting on a tour bus next year. You may fall in love in Little Rock and say “I love you” under the Eiffel Tower. You could very well be writing your own book next year all about how you’re just as much in love today as you were the first time you saw him. I don’t know. You may be the happiest you’ve ever been, alone, just you and Netflix. And that’s OK, too.

But here’s what I do know. Your future is bright. God has not forgotten.

I’ll end this chapter with one more mushy thing, and then I promise to move on. I have written a lot of songs about loss and heartache. This past year was the first time I wrote about love and happiness. Stephen loves the constellations, so I surprised him with a song. I wrote it with our friend Blessing Offor. I hope when you read the lyrics, you’ll remember that not knowing what’s ahead isn’t a bad thing. The love of your life could be wrapping cables and working on a PowerPoint just around the corner.

Hercules

Yeah, I’ve got some baggage

I’m scared that it might be too much

But you just keep unpacking saying

“Girl you know I’m strong enough”

Now, we could go to Paris

Yeah, we could go around the world

I’m acting kinda careless

That’s ’cause you make me feel comfortable

I used to see you only in the sky, Hercules

Now you’re next to me

Now you’re next to me

I used to see you only in the night, Hercules

Now I can’t believe how bright you really are

Now I can’t believe how right you really are

Now, I don’t know the future

But I know it belongs to us

I’ll spend all of my time

But what it buys will never be enough

I used to see you only in the sky, Hercules

Now you’re next to me

Now you’re next to me

I used to see you only in the night, Hercules

Now I can’t believe how bright you really are

Now I can’t believe how right you really are