As of today, my husband and I have been married for eighteen years. Don’t that just blow your mind?
In honor of this occasion, I’ll treat you to a sample of what my husband has lived with for almost two decades. Picture the scene: it was his first night home after a week-long work trip. His first flight was at 5:00 a.m., he got bumped and held over at his connection point so he’d spent the day in an airport waiting for a flight home. He managed to stay awake long enough to talk to the kids a little before they went to bed. Finally we were in bed, and he had deducted from my sighs and fidgets that I was fretting about something. Groggily he asked what the problem is.
He sighed. “What?”
“You just didn’t seem like you were glad to see me when you got home.”
“I’m not a very demonstrative person.”
“You seemed glad to see the kids.”
“Well, I was glad to see you, too.”
“I couldn’t really tell.”
“That’s not my problem,” he grumbled.
“Well now I’m keeping you awake, so I guess it is your problem,” I snickered.
“Gah!” The strangled noise may have been his head exploding. “Go to sleep, ya psycho bitch!” He rolled over and tried to drift off to the sound of my giggles.
Eighteen years of this. The man has the patience of a saint, I tell you.