What Is Essential

When I met future longtime hubby in 8th grade, did I know that one day he’d be the definition of what is essential in my life? That one day we’d marry, move from this place to that place multiples times, and wind up in the Valley, where we swore on a stack of hot latkes we’d never live, and yet, here we remain, some 34 years later? No, I didn’t know any of this in 8th grade. One thing I do know, now more than ever during these terrifying times, is that the man I said “definitely” to in front of friends, family and a rabbi straight out of Central Casting nearly 40 years ago, is not just essential to me and our mishpocha. He's also essential at work. He even has a letter to prove it.

This is not the letter.

Every day he must flash his letter of verification, not just at the CW gate, but also in the direction of my aging eyeballs. But I need more than that. “Tell me again, darling, why you must go to work and leave me and Sir Blakey home to worry, catastrophize, and disinfect the palatial estate in 15-minute intervals?” Whereupon he justifies his departure in a heartfelt manner. “I must go because I’m essential.” “I'm blocking the door." "Step away. I have Papal Dispensation." "Don't get fancy on me, mister." "I'm exempt from the immediate obligation of law." "Oh dear God in heaven, this is what you've dreamed of your entire life, isn't it, honey?" "Pretty much." "Fine. Go. Do. Be essential. Purell yourself, constantly, and then get the eff home. You dig?” “I definitely do.”