Meet O Columnist Lisa Kogan
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Have I left anything out? Let's see, my recent apartment renovation consisted of turning over the sofa cushions, then realizing they looked better the other way. I think every human being deserves a great mattress, a comfortable pair of shoes, and a very smart shrink—the rest is gravy. It's been a long time since I've believed in God, but now that I've put that in print, I'm scared that this God I don't believe in will be mad at me. I get scared a lot. I'm scared the ozone layer is dissolving. I'm scared civility is disappearing. I'm scared one of those horrible superstores will be coming soon to a neighborhood near me. I'm scared my parents are getting old. I'm scared my upper arms are getting flabby. I'm scared of lunchmeat. I'm scared of ambivalent men.
For a long time, I had a type: dark, intense, just a touch remote—the kind of man for whom "I love you" was something said instead of something done. You know the ones I mean, right? They don't want you, but they don't want to let you go. At the end of most dates, I'd find myself tempted to pat the guy reassuringly and say, "Not to worry, you didn't give anything away." My hope was that this sort of man would fall in love with me. My prayer was that I would get over him. My wish was that we had never met.
Then, just when I decided I could have a fine life as a bachelor girl, Johannes appeared with his slow-dance eyes and his easy laugh—and little by little, he crushed my resistance like grapes into wine. Except for a couple of bouts of stomach flu and a few genuinely ugly arguments, there hasn't been a day in nearly 13 years when I haven't wanted to inhale him. But there's a catch.
In order to share custody of his son, Johannes lives on another continent. For those of you playing the home game, that would be 8,000 miles, nine lost luggage situations, and a six-hour time difference away. We are together roughly every two months—making us the envy of most of our married friends. But there's a twist.
Her name is Julia Claire Labusch—and she's our 3-year-old daughter.
Keep Reading: Lisa on the birth of her daughter
For a long time, I had a type: dark, intense, just a touch remote—the kind of man for whom "I love you" was something said instead of something done. You know the ones I mean, right? They don't want you, but they don't want to let you go. At the end of most dates, I'd find myself tempted to pat the guy reassuringly and say, "Not to worry, you didn't give anything away." My hope was that this sort of man would fall in love with me. My prayer was that I would get over him. My wish was that we had never met.
Then, just when I decided I could have a fine life as a bachelor girl, Johannes appeared with his slow-dance eyes and his easy laugh—and little by little, he crushed my resistance like grapes into wine. Except for a couple of bouts of stomach flu and a few genuinely ugly arguments, there hasn't been a day in nearly 13 years when I haven't wanted to inhale him. But there's a catch.
In order to share custody of his son, Johannes lives on another continent. For those of you playing the home game, that would be 8,000 miles, nine lost luggage situations, and a six-hour time difference away. We are together roughly every two months—making us the envy of most of our married friends. But there's a twist.
Her name is Julia Claire Labusch—and she's our 3-year-old daughter.
Keep Reading: Lisa on the birth of her daughter
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