My Completed Great Expectations

When the young female realtor in her short, deep blue, professional skirt unlocked the two iron cast doors to the foyer of my prospective property, a sudden, cool, nightmarish emotion overpowered my body. My muscles became tense, and my mind gave way to wild fancies. My second-generation Indian-American wife, whom I love, put her hand into mine, and when her deep, dark brown, pearl eyes caught mine, I retreated from my frozen stance. Later that day, we gave the realtor our "John Hancock," and she gave us the start of a happy life.

My wife Rubi enjoys herself as a computational mathematician for Google Labs. She dresses herself most elegantly: a mixture of the Indian traditional and of contemporary American clothes. She fixes herself with skirts received from her grandmother; they are wonderfully decorated with a complex weaving of the thread, such that the eyes can detect a whole spectrum of orange elephants and flowers. The style of her tops, however, are a product of WalMart. Rubi frequently wears dark, conservative, tight tops that force the mind to hypothesize about her stellar body under the garments. Her homogenous cultural mixture of style leaves me breathless.

Even though that I cannot undo the knots that Rubi puts in my heart, I work for the National Security Agency as a mathematical topologist. Everyday, after I pass through countless levels of security to arrive at my workstation, I proceed to exploit the outer limits of topological complexity theory as a means to decipher documents vital to the interests of America. Surprisingly, the dress code is nonexistent; therefore, my weekday clothes match my weekend clothes in that they both come from the fashionably higher-priced shelf at WalMart. Rubi says that she was initially attracted to my stylish attire, and found my sharp mind and crude attitude simply irresistible. I have the same outlook on her.

I love the relationship I have with my wife; we are insanely passionate about the same topics. For illustration, when we gather at our elliptical dining table to do "homework," she communicates to me the news of the day, and we feverishly analyze the meaning until we are almost debating. With every word, the air is cut by a super-sonic jet or wards, until the topic becomes depleted. As a loud bell echoes throughout the house, signaling that the delivery boy is waiting impatiently at the door, the debate ends and hot, greasy, food passes over our tongues, leaving a sweet memory as it completes its short journey. The victor of 21 games of chess - 3 traditional, 5 Cylindrical, 5 Losers, and 8 Suicide - settles the question of who does the dishes. This way, we are never bored with each other; we always find a way to cultivate sources of entertainment.

With the support of Rubi, a good percent of the 2nd story of our property is occupied by the closest thing we have to a child, a child that provokes joyous emotions in me. In a temperature controlled environment on the second floor, sits a mini-server farm and a supercomputer. This child, named Little Blue, and constructed by hand, took 3 years to perfect. Rubi and I use it to do our work, and when inactive, Little Blue performs protein-folding calculations that are sent to a non-profit research group.

Growing up, my expectations of having a loving, smart, wife and a personal supercomputer seemed fictional, however, life has made me a lucky man: I have both of my fantasy expectations. As I close the final chapter of my autobiography, but not the final chapter of my life, I trust that the reader has become educated in an alternate view of what it means to be successful in the sequence of events called life.