She’s in New Orleans just now – visiting her dad, whose health isn’t all it should be.
After 35 years, you get used to having your spouse around and, when they’re away, a house can get awfully quiet.
And that quiet can get you to thinking about those years.
I’m not the poster boy for romance. In fact, the word romance and my name are never likely to collide in the same sentence. Truth be told, the high-water mark of our courtship was the night of our engagement. That evening, I’d worked myself up to the point where I was having trouble remembering what I planned to say.
For most, “Would you marry me?” wouldn’t have been all that difficult.
I, however, got so flustered that when we got to the restaurant where I was going to propose, I just pulled the ring out of my pocket and handed it to her in the parking lot.
After some moments of exasperation (on her part) and worry (on my part), she said yes. I think she understood that she wasn’t getting the brightest bulb in the romance chandelier but she knew that I was at least housebroken and reasonably clean.
She hates it when I mention her, but I’m tired of what I see in the world and I wanted to spend a few words on a bright spot in my universe so I’m writing this. Since this is supposed to be an opinion column, I’ll say that, in my opinion, I’m lucky to have her. I’m also writing this for every other romantically challenged male out there to prove that even we have an even chance at happiness.
Here, then, is what this woman has given me:
* The constant support I needed to chase the dreams I had as a young man, coupled with the words of encouragement that were necessary every time I fell short.
* The very blunt reminders, whenever I did achieve anything and was feeling my oats, that she knew what I looked like in my underwear.
* Continuing and very vivid lessons in perseverance, dignity and strength in the face of pain. So much so that I’ve learned to silently bear any hurt I experience since it’s nothing compared to her four hip replacements, several other major surgeries, and an ongoing fight with arthritis.
* Constant examples of humor, good sense and patience while raising three kids. Her repeated hints that lost toys, broken dishes, torn clothes, dents in the car, dirty rooms and strange haircuts were part and parcel of raising kids helped me get through it all with most of my sanity intact.
* Tight-lipped warnings that anger and harsh words in a family need to be kept to an absolute minimum.
* Remarkable silence in the face of recurring examples of my own foolishness. As an example, to me, it’s a given that I really do need my collection of hot sauces from all over the world even though we use about one bottle per year and now have enough to carry us through the next millennium.
* Quiet acceptance of the fact that I will repeatedly watch every single episode of “Victory at Sea” or “Band of Brothers” and any John Wayne movie ever made.
* Exceptional forbearance in the face of my constant complaints that dishwater is a corrosive liquid that will strip the skin from my hands were they ever to come in contact with a sink full of it and dirty dishes.
* Ego assuaging comments to the effect that, over the years, I’ve become “sturdy and solid” rather than the much more truthful description that could be applied.
* In her unchallenged role as head of the household, untold years of patient and repeated reminders that the garbage will not, of its own volition, find its way to the curb.
* Tolerant endurance of my rantings at all things political mixed with gentle reminders that politicians are people too. Minor aside: I hate the fact that she’s always right.
* Frequent demonstrations that holding hands is still a nice thing to do when walking together.
* Constant reassurance that, despite all of my flaws, she intends to honor the “‘til death do us part” portion of our marriage vows even though I know she’s been tempted many times to pray for that date to be moved forward.
For all of the above and much more, when she gets home, I think I’ll do something romantic that’ll bring a tear to her eye.
Right.
And if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his butt.
Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Comments can be sent to larrysim@att.net.
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