This June will mark the 12th year of blissful union for me and Husband. This not only means that those who took the ‘under’ on us making it 10 years had to pay up, but also tells me that we’re doing something right. Or at least enough right that we are able to tolerate each other’s company on a relatively consistent basis.
When we got married, I remember being told “never go to bed angry.” Um, ok, not to burst any bubbles, but that’s crap. First, I like sleep. A lot. Also, I’m not especially one for big heartfelt conversations. I don’t need a good cry every so often and I don’t complain with the girls about how silly those men are with their football and other sports-related things.
So, yeah, talking it out isn’t something that really works for us. I can get my message across just as well by huffily pulling ALL the covers over to my side of the bed and crocodile-rolling myself into a puffy cocoon of downy anger. And then we wake up fine and life goes on.
However, there are times when even my black heart takes a bit of time for sentimentality. Like last night, for example. I was home sick all day convalescing and finally taking in the magic that is “Mad Men.” (Seriously – I would have been lost as a woman in the 1960s. “Call me “sweetheart” one more time. Go ahead. I’ll cut you with your stupid skinny tie.”) Once Husband got back from another running-related event, I filled him in on the bulk of Season 1 as we finished out the first DVD set. (“Yes, he’s the boss. No, not him. HIM. Yes, the boss. Of the AD AGENCY. No, he’s not sleeping with her. He’s sleeping with HER. Come on now, people, pay attention.”)
Now because he still has more than his fair share of a sixth grade boy’s maturity level, Husband became quite entranced by the wool-blend dresses worn by the secretaries on the series. He decided that the word of the evening would therefore be “bum.” Yes, Husband spent a good 2 hours saying “bum” every 2 minutes and giggling to himself.
I’m all for a good fanny joke, but I just wanted to sit and watch the fine character development on the show. And I had invested about 12 hours in Season 1 at this point, so there was no going back. I tried the patented Teacher Look. Since Husband is a teacher himself, he was immune.
Then I started getting kicky. Nothing. (“Bum. Hee hee hee.” KICK “Ow!.......Bum. Hee hee hee.)
Finally, mercifully, it was time to go to sleep. (Wait, what? Why didn’t I just turn off the show earlier if he was bothering me? Um, hello? Have we met? Talked about the OCD-ish need I have to finish stuff like that? OK, then.)
My head hit the pillow and just as I closed my eyes, I heard it.
“Bum.” (giggle giggle giggle)
Crocodile roll, activate.
“YOU ARE AN IDIOT!!!!!”
I was all prepared to go to sleep when I remembered. No, not that I shouldn’t go to bed angry. Something much more basic.
“Crap, you have an invitational tomorrow, don’t you?”
“OK, well just in case the bus crashes and you die, the last words I say to you can’t be calling you an idiot. I love you.”
“Love you too, Al.”
And that’s our secret – infantile comments with more than a splash of gallows humor.
Oh, and a pledge when we got married that we’re only in it for 50 years. Then we can both trade in for younger models. Only 38 ½ years left!