WHY MY PARENTS HAVE THE PERFECT RELATIONSHIP or WILL THIS BE MY FUTURE? . . .

They can't keep their eyes off each other. My parents communicate with glances. They can speak encyclopedic volumes to each other in a twitch of an eye (usually the right one, because when he's tired, Appa's left eye sort of sticks closed). When Appa gets too rowdy in front of the dinner guests, Omma quirks an eyebrow -- all of a sudden, the other people in the room get to tell their funny stories as well. When Omma speaks a little too critically, Appa flashes his eyes at her sideways -- all of a sudden, Omma is the most accommodating and kind woman on the face of the earth: "Of COURSE your son deserves to go to Harvard -- kids with 2.9 GPAs get in ALL the time." When my brother or I tell a completely inappropriately hilarious story over dinner and they don't want to encourage our rudeness, they just silently bulge their eyes at each other, knowing that they'll laugh about it under the covers later anyway.

They share a brain. Yeah, my parents argue and disagree as much as any other couple -- probably more, because they're both highly intelligent and incredibly stubborn. But when it comes to family matters, there's always only one cerebral unit. Neither questions a decision -- there's always later to talk about it privately, and persuade each other that the decision is right or wrong. Neither contradicts a scolding or a punishment -- a bad deed is a bad deed, and no one gets off easy just because one parent is in a generous mood. Back when it was relevant, curfew was never changed except by the curfew-setter -- even if it was 10pm one night, and miraculously, 2am the next night (thanks for that one, Omma). I don't know if they discussed all possible household issues before they got married, and created solutions for all of them, or what. Maybe they just read the same child-rearing manuals. All I know is, as a feisty high school junior protesting a laughable and impossible curfew, it's intimidatingly amazing to be presented with such a uni-brained front. On the other hand, there's something bizarrely safe and secure about how united, exactly, my parents are.

They just don't shut up. Last year, my parents and their friends caravanned to Pennsylvania for a weekend trip, each couple in their own car. When they arrived at their destination 2.5 hours later, one couple asked my parents in near horror, "What were you TALKING about the whole way here?!" "Why?" my parents responded. The other couple, following my parents' car, had watched my parents chatter at each other for the entire 2.5-hour car ride, and couldn't imagine what Omma and Appa -- married for 30 years -- still had left to discuss when left by themselves. My parents don't know either -- they just talk. They talk about us kids, their work, church, their friends, our friends, their golf swings and putting stances, new purchases, new projects, home renovations, who they want me to marry, who they hope my brother doesn't marry, the Yankees, the Motherland, so-and-so's new baby, the crabgrass in the backyard, dance steps they have to learn, their allergies, the price of bananas, whatever. They spend the whole day together at work, then come home and talk some more over dinner. When I go to the bathroom at night before bed, I can hear them through the door -- still talking. When they get started, you can't get a word in edgewise, but that's okay -- my parents are pretty entertaining, and are also an excellent source of harmless gossip.

They think they're still in their 20s. There once was a time when I would call my parents to come and get me if I had been drinking at a friend's place and didn't think I should drive myself home. Well, HOW TIMES CHANGE. Now, we take the occasional family outing to Baden-Baden in New Jersey, a Korean version of the German alehouse, where my parents order me a Sprite, throw down some draft beer themselves, then crawl into the back seat of the car and order me to drive them home. No, it's not gross, like the car commercial. And there's certainly no "Joe Millionaire"-esque "slurping" going on!! (Perish the thought.) They just sit back there, holding hands, talking again (more loudly this time), then fall gently asleep. Sure, the Palisades Parkway at night can be a lonely drive with no one to talk to, but I'd rather be their chauffeur than their referee.

They can't keep their hands off each other. Not that I (or you) need the visual, but there's definitely no question where my brother and I came from. Omma can't walk by Appa without getting a butt slap. Appa can't watch TV without Omma draping herself against him, using his shoulder as her personal headrest -- if he shifts, Omma holds her head suspended until he has settled again, then repositions herself accordingly. When Omma dresses up and looks especially ravishing, Appa grabs her and polkas her around the house until we're all rolling on the floor in laughter. They go downstairs and practice their ballroom dancing for hours. When you bust open their bedroom door on sleepy Sunday mornings, there's only one lumpy mass in the middle of the mattress, and of course one has to jump on it and demand breakfast, please.

They protect each other. Any new car we acquire always goes to Omma -- Appa wants her to be driving only the best, the safest and the newest. Omma never sleeps or naps when passengering a car Appa is driving -- she doesn't want him to doze off or be bored with no one to talk to. Appa never takes the lead when we drive two cars to go somewhere -- he wants to be behind Omma to make sure she's okay and to be there if something should happen to her. Omma wrestles Appa on golf outings to slather sunscreen on his face -- he hates "lotion-y" things but she hates skin cancer more. Appa always sleeps closest to the door, at home or away -- he wants to be between Omma and whatever unwelcome element might be coming through the doorway. (Sunday morning bust-ins do not count as "unwelcome elements.") Some of it's primal ("me man, you woman"), some of it's habit, all of it is very cute and necessary.

They heal each other. A few months ago, Omma underwent a minor outpatient surgical procedure. After waking from the general anesthesia, she rested in the hospital for a few hours before I brought her home. That night, her body went into some sort of shock -- we think from the last of the anesthesia wearing off -- and Omma got the most unimaginable, scariest shakes ever. I'm talking full-body, teeth-chattering, bile-raising, cold blue-lipped, hot feverish foreheaded, eyes-rolling-back, incoherent "Exorcist" shakes. I thought she was going to have a seizure, or an aneurysm or die -- I had never seen such a thing before. I had no idea how to help -- all I could do was kneel outside the bedroom door, weeping and praying for God to save her. But Appa just crawled into bed with Omma, wrapped his whole body around hers and held her, whispering "Shh, shh, I know, I know . . ." Twenty minutes later, Omma was sound asleep. I know it wasn't Appa's magical powers that did the trick, but God knows what's what, and He knows that Appa is the best medicine for Omma.

Thirty-eight years of being together, and counting . . .