There have been many bewildering moments in my marriage.
The first was when we were told we couldn’t be awarded a marriage certificate until we signed a legally binding document stating that we understand marrying a person does not mean having ownership of said person conferred upon you (Adam: What?! I’m not signing this! What’s the point then?)
Or moments when we are discussing whether or not to continue riding a roller coaster of offers and rejections on a particular house, trying to determine just how high we can let the thing climb before puking, and my husband sits there across from me saying tit-useless things like, “Do whatever you want.” And “I’ll support whatever decision you make.”
(Whatever decision *I* make? In regards to the biggest financial journey we will ever embark upon? Oh ho ho, NICE TRY deceivingly supportive Adam. I see exactly what you’re doing.
This is the type of shit I pull when suddenly our mutually-owned beast becomes “your” dog when he befouls the backyard in a particularly devastating way, or reduces a grown man to tears with one of his trademark malodorous – but silent, which somehow makes it worse – emissions.
This will not be MY decision, because then it becomes MY house every time something breaks or explodes or catches fire [I’m cooking a lot these days.])
The most bewildering moments in my marriage however, are those that occur over a twelve hour time period when I careen wildly from thinking my husband is a fairly normal human being, to being wholeheartedly enraged by what is clearly an irrefutably demented and antagonistic nature, to seeing him arrive on the front doorstep of my work, coffee in hand, and feeling such a rush of affection at seeing his face that it feels like the first day I met him all over again.
I swear to you this man is the most wholly, intricately infuriating person I’ve ever met. I’ve lost count of the times in the twelve years we’ve owned each other that I’ve raised my fists to the sky and bellowed, “Adaaaammmmm!”
Yet this morning he shows up, smiling, with a steaming hot cup of salvation made just the way I like it, and I am reminded how purely transparent he is.
He really does want what I want.
He wants to make me happy.
His words don’t always say much, but his actions speak volumes. My task is to remind myself to watch, rather than listen.
Not an easy feat for someone whose whole life revolves around words.
So here’s a late-night toast to the husbands, these bewildering manbeasts we share our lives with.
Here’s to these lovely men who sometimes seem like they are speaking a completely foreign language- but know just what to say (and do) when it really counts.
And Mister- thank you for the coffee.