extra for no reason (except love)

On Lobster Rolls, Living Large, and my MUHFUCKIN HUSBAND.

I don’t really talk about my man on here.

Not because he isn’t present in my life—he’s everywhere in it. But because what we have feels… sacred. It’s also deadass hard to explain the fullness of this love. I don’t think I could write an essay vivid enough to make you feel the depth of what exists between us. The joy of him. The foolishness. The way his love is a kind of knowing. The way his presence has taught me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.

We went to the same high school, but didn’t date until college. He’s been orbiting my life since we were teenagers on some Forever type shit. He is, without exaggeration, the love of my life. And the hero of everything.

We snuck off and got married last month. And maybe I’ll tell you that story soon. But that’s not the best place to start.

I want to tell you about the time he took me to Maine for a lobster roll.

It was 2021. Which matters, because the world was still deep in the thick of COVID. Husbae and I had been trapped in our little Brooklyn apartment with a smelly roommate, whose “eau de gym bag” aroma permeated every room. We’d been cooped up for eighteen months. Like truly trapped. No trips. No outings. Just constant anxiety, Lysol wipes, and hoping the neighbor didn’t cough.

One afternoon, I was watching Food Network, half-paying attention. A contestant whipped up a fancy lobster roll in a brioche bun, with glistening claw meat (pause, I guess). Husbae looked over and sighed, all nostalgic. “I haven’t had a good lobster roll in a minute.”

I blinked. “I’ve never had one in my life. You know i don’t bang with the mayo gang.”
He looked at me like I told him I was secretly a vampire. “Babe,” he said, “you gotta try one.”

I rolled over and grabbed my phone to see if we could get one delivered. Without a word, he placed his hand gently over the screen. Tsked.

“No no,” he said. “A lobster roll is meant to be eaten fresh. With a fresh-ass lobster. Where are they pulling lobsters from in Brooklyn? Just to drive it to you in a hot car? Or some dude on a bike? Nah. I’m taking you to Maine. There’s this little place right on the water. I had the best fucking lobster roll of my life there. They also had some really bomb blueberries, but it’s prolly the wrong season for that…”

Now, listen. I am not a spontaneous girl by default. I need time to process shit. Figure out where my bandwidth is gonna come from. I like plans, bullet points, Notion dashboards. And when he said it, I laughed like, Be serious. You want to RENT A CAR. And drive, SIX of Beyonce’s hours to MAINE for a sandwich? With MAYO on it???

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something: the only thing standing between me and that lobster roll was a belief that I wasn’t allowed to want things that much. To have experiences that delicious and simple and specific.

It’s a strange kind of dissonance to carry the spirit of That Girl™, and still struggle to believe that you could actually be her.

There was a familliar voice in my head that said: Who does that? Why would you go so far, spend that money, take that time, just for a vibe?

Why would you do something so extra?

And I had to check myself.
Because that voice wasn’t mine.

It was every whisper I’d ever heard about what I should and shouldn’t do.
Don’t be so loud. Don’t want so much. Don’t try so hard. Don’t take up space.
Don’t pursue joy unless it’s practical, productive, or already proven safe.

But I rebuke all of that.

If Serena Williams’ man can hop on a flight to Italy to get her some gelato, then baby, I can let mine drive me to Maine for a lobster roll. And I did. We did. We drove six hours. Got a nautical-themed Airbnb that smelled like driftwood and lemon. Explored the harbor. And found that little lobster shack on the side of the road, just like he remembered.

And let me tell you something: that lobster roll?
Worth every damn mile.

But the tastiest part was that there was a man in front of me willing to be extra.
Willing to do the most to ensure I had a chance to experience something good…just because. Who said “extra” was too much? Who said I didn’t deserve that?

His gut reaction wasn’t to downplay or deflect. He didn’t even file it away for later. MY MAN said: let’s go.
He knew I was tired. Sad. Stressed about my sick momma. My sick self. The state of the world. He knew. And he couldn’t save my mother. Or fix the world.
But he could make damn sure I knew whether or not I liked lobster rolls.

He could make absolutely certain I had a good memory to cleave to in dark times.
He ensured—ensured—that there was no desire of mine too small to take seriously. Nothing too trivial for him to get up and do something about. He didn’t need a reason other than I wanted it.

And that’s why, when he proposed to me on the fifth day of Kwanzaa—Nia, which means purpose (he’s a swag daddy for sure)—I said absolutely yes.

---

My husband has taught me a lot. Not through lectures or books, but by showing up, by insisting I try the damn lobster roll, by driving six hours just to see me smile in a plae I’d never smiled before. Every emotion I’ve ever felt, I’ve felt more fully in relationship with him. I understand joy better because of him. I understand myself better, too.

I know I haven’t introduced him before. But now felt like the right time. Not because I needed to prove anything, but because this small, silly, sacred story felt like a good way to say: I’m loved well. And I’m learning how to let that be enough reason to say yes to things that feel extravagant. Spontaneous. Tender.

So I’ll ask you this:
What is your lobster roll?
What small, ridiculous joy have you been talking yourself out of?

Maybe it’s time to just… go.
Let it be extra.
Because you are worthy of joy that doesn’t need to justify itself.
And the world is wide, and wild, and full of lobster rolls.

Love y’all. Mean it. If you love me back, Buy Me A Book!