One of my biggest fears about getting married was that, by becoming a wife, I would gradually lose my toughness and independence. In my New Jersey hometown, girls quickly learned how to smack a softball or outrun a boy, and being small (I’m five feet one in thick socks), I was especially proud of my skills. After graduating from college, I found I lacked a certain fear gene: I jogged in Central Park at night, and once I was jumped by a man and not only fought him off but also chased him, swearing, when he ran. In my 20s, I lived alone, ate alone, traveled solo, and happily took care of myself. I considered my pluck and sense of autonomy to be my trademark.
Then I met Dan—tall, blue-eyed, calm. At 29, I knew it was time to trade in my free-agent status and marry this man. Still, I worried I would go soft, forgetting everything from how to change a lightbulb (place stool atop chair; climb) to how to explore a new city alone. In my parents’ marriage, my mother cheerfully kept house and rode in the passenger seat while my father made the big decisions. I didn’t anticipate becoming passive. But I feared that if I wasn’t forced to perform various tasks (after all, Dan could change the lightbulb without climbing), I would get lazy and lose my edge.
During our 19 years of marriage, some of those worries have been realized. Yes, we both work and parent our two children, Phoebe and Nathaniel. But Dan drives when we go on vacations and navigates in foreign places while I window-shop and admire other women’s shoes. At home, he handles the trash, the electronics, and the vehicles and mans the yard; I cook, do the laundry, buy the clothes, and play nurse to sick kids. I never notice if we’re low on gas (Dan will check) or remember how many gigs our computers have (Dan will know). Not long ago, it occurred to me that I had become exactly what I had once feared: a less independent version of my former self.
After that moment, I increasingly didn’t like having our kids think that Mom whips up waffles and extracts splinters while Dad programs the GPS and takes us on trips. I wanted to show our kids—and myself—that I was still a strong woman who could handle rugged terrain and succeed without the help of any man, even my husband.
Our dog, Rosie, was rescued from the streets of Puerto Rico as a pup, and Dan and I have followed the plight of the many stray dogs there ever since. Last year, in one newsletter, Adrienne Galler Lastra, who runs the rescue shelter Amigos de los Animales out of her home in Piñones, Puerto Rico, asked for volunteers. This seemed like a perfect opportunity: The kids—then 16 and 13—and I could stay in a cheap motel and walk to the shelter daily, where we would clean crates, socialize dogs, accompany animals to the vet, and help rescue strays. For them, it would mean real work with a great payoff, plus an education about the world outside their Massachusetts hometown; for me, it was a chance to demonstrate my self-reliance.
Dan was amenable—he said he could use some time alone—but looked freaked-out when we pulled away without him. (His parting line: “Do not bring back another dog!”) I, however, was excited. At the San Juan airport, I felt my old swagger coming back as I heaved suitcases into our tin-can rental car. Instead of riding shotgun, I drove us to Piñones—learning fast that driving on Puerto Rican highways involves mostly honking and praying.