I could have put up something on my Facebook status about my wonderful husband, our 16 glorious years together, how he is my best friend and confidante. Yeah, I didn't do that. In fact, I never re-post those husband-adoring messages that go around from time to time. It's not that I don't like the Vulcan. As husbands go, he's not too bad. Somehow I can't think of him as my best friend, though. When I ponder the term "best friend," I envision the person I call when I'm at my lowest, who listens to all my troubles with a sympathetic ear and offers a pat on the back. How can my best friend be a man who I best communicate with via e-mail, even though he works at home and I'm merely typing to him from the floor below?
Back in the early days (read: before children) we used to go on vacation in October. After The Professor came along, it turned into long weekend trips with our child in the care of his grandmother and aunt. Our last long weekend trip, which must go back a good six or seven years now, ended with The Vulcan going to sleep at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night, leaving me in a Lexington hotel room watching
Larry King. At that point I decided a simple dinner out, childfree, was about as exciting as it was going to get.
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| OK, maybe the man's not completely without sentiment |
This year we didn't even manage that. Part of the problem was Grandma and
Uncle Chester's unavailability to watch The Inmates (a rare occurrence). Another issue was my hauling my sorry behind back to Weight Watchers this week to officially get weighed in for the first time in a year (and the receptionist kindly whited out my weight gain on my booklet so as not to discourage me). Mostly, though, I just didn't feel like it. We're going on twenty years together. We have two kids, two dogs, two cats, two frogs, and seven computers. (I throw in the latter fact only to reinforce my claim that my husband's easier to talk with through technology -- how else to explain the people-to-keyboard ratio in the house?) We're past the dewy-eyed stage. As my mother always says, if she sees a couple at a restaurant alone and they're totally thrilled with each other's company, they ain't married yet. (Or maybe they're not married to each
other.)
In my early twenties I probably would have been depressed to think that romance would be totally gone from my life. Instead I find myself too busy (and too tired) to care. It could be because my concerns are more global in general or focused on my children in particular. I'd like to say I've grown up, I've matured, but readers of my blog know
that can't be it. Perhaps I'm in a rut and too distracted by my latest
knitting project to notice. Whatever the reasons, I don't find myself depressed to have stayed home on my anniversary, with a day as ordinary as any other. Maybe I've grown, maybe I'm heading towards enlightenment. Or perhaps I'm mentally saving up for that big-ass gift I'm gonna make sure he gets me for our
20th anniversary.
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HOW DO I LOVE THEE?
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DON'T YOU HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO?
