Here’s a thing about being married for 10 years: some days you just can’t help lingering a bit longer in the rat poison aisle at Home Depot.
Sometimes, when you’ve said things like “Please take the trash out” or “I wish you wouldn’t fart at the table” or “You tell that mother of yours that we are not spending our anniversary at her house again!” umpteen times, only to be ignored, you get to feeling a bit small and insignificant. That’s when large power tools start looking mighty appealing.
Other times, when you’ve spent a weekend working and cleaning house while your spouse plays video games non-stop and then accuses you of being selfish because you’re too tired to play “Mean Cop and Naughty Jaywalker” again, it’s hard not to feel just a bit taken for granted. You, and eventually your spouse, learn it’s best if you don’t empty the dishwasher on those nights lest you notice how sharp and shiny those Ginsu knives of yours look.
There are even times when the logical side of your brain kicks in and you start doing a cost-benefit analysis involving life insurance proceeds and outlays for things like handy-men, painting crews, plumbers and someone to squish large bugs. That’s when non-extradition countries start sounding mighty good.
Or so I’ve heard.
And then there are times when your spouse — yes, the very same one who ignores requests about taking out the trash — remembers something you wrote almost a year ago wishing you owned a piano and had never stopped taking lessons, then puts it together with the other three, maybe four times during your marriage that you’ve said the same thing.
And then he goes and does something like this for your birthday and, well, all that other stuff seems irrelevant because you know, without the slightest bit of doubt, that you are indeed well and truly loved.
Thank you, VH. I love my piano. I love you, too. You really are the best thing to have happened to me.