I’ve posted so much about parenting and my children; I’ve decided to post about something else: my husband. The quintessential Pollyanna, the man who whistles in the morning after 3 hours of sleep, the man who never gets sick, the man who plays with his and other people’s children, the man who stands up to talk to you or to offer his chair, the man who looks you in the eye and remembers your name along with your grandparents’ names or your hometown, the year you graduated high school and your first pet’s name. Let’s face it — the man’s annoying!
No, you say? Really? Have you ever had a great night out, which you are paying for with your dear life the next morning with only 3.5 hours of sleep, and your husband is whistling Dixie in the kitchen because, “It’s just so wonderful to be alive!” Once, I watched him save a cockroach. Seriously. Oh and he’s funny too — in a really bad sort of way. His jokes or puns are so silly, so utterly horrible, they’re funny.
So what do you do with such…perfection? Well for starters, you act like the yen to his yang. See, I wouldn’t be such a stressed out bitch individual if my husband wasn’t so squarely on the opposite end of the spectrum. If he wasn’t so gosh darn happy all the time there might be a little more happiness and optimism left for me or possibly the other angry 10 million people in the world. But for some strange reason he loves me. Or as he says, “Something with an ‘L’…” I think it’s because he knows this yen and yang thing and he likes being the happy one.
I’m kidding, kinda. Anyone who knows him will know what I’m talking about. I see fear in their eyes because they wonder if one night he will crack and let out what must be somewhere, some 38 years of pent-up frustration and I’ll be the target. But hell, maybe I’ll get to wake up the next morning whistlin’ Dixie. Until then I’ll just pull the covers over my head and pretend he’s really stomping around and he’s upset over something, anything.