My partner is in her room on the unmade bed with all the laundry, doing the questions for the Brene Brown course we’re taking on line. I already finished mine. That’s how things go around here. I am the type A who gets it all done yesterday. But get this…usually I would write a novel in answer to said questions, and she would write, oh, maybe three phrases. But I snuck a look at her answers and there’s at least half a page full of her cramped lefty hand writing.
I’m having a little trouble breathing. I don’t know whether to feel completely mushy and grateful or totally threatened.
Hey, no one said we were sane.
Last weekend we were out with another couple who just passed their 10 year anniversary. They asked if it gets easier (we’re hitting year 29 in June). We kind of looked at each other, and then my partner said, “No, not really.”
I made a face. I could tell she started getting nervous we’d have a fight about it when we got home, because she backtracked like nobody’s business.
“I mean, it does, but then it doesn’t,” is how she started said backtracking.
I love being married.
Except when I don’t.
But right now I love it. We lie around comparing the effects of menopause. We talk about everything from politics to why she uses the word, “pumpy” as an endearment and what that’s supposed to mean. We go to yoga and we argue about movies.
She comes up behind me and kisses my head. I mean now. She did that right now. For no reason.
We even had our friggin’ torturous mammograms on the same day.
I said, “You are my twin.” She is. Except that we look nothing alike and I’m a femme tomboy and she’s gender non-conforming and she’s Jewish and I’m an ex-Catholic pseudo Buddhist and she’s a tech nerd and I’m an edgy artist and she’s all about the details and I’m all about the big picture concepts and we do everything exactly the opposite from each other.
Outside of that…