The Spandexversary

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 25, Verse 24

"It is better to live in a corner of an attic than in a beautiful home with a 

cranky, quarrelsome woman."

---

CHIPPED WISDOM:

I'm very fortunate.

I know that, if you read back through the fifty-some-odd, quite odd, yes, posts on this blog you might legitimately wonder if I really believe that.  

But, I do.  

One of the things I'm frightfully fortunate about is that I married a woman who thinks that a lot of things related to romantic relationships are stupid.

Like roses'n'chocolates.  

Now, don't get me wrong, she loves flowers and chocolate, just not "roses'n'chocolates".  And I particularly enjoy going to a florist and hand-picking an eclectic, autumnal bouquet for her.  I always say I want to spend "between $35 and $40", and it almost always comes out to "$44.85" or something like that, but who cares?  I love snapdragons and sunflowers.  No, snapdragons'n'sunflowers.

She also thinks Valentine's Day is stupid, and I love that.  Fortunately, we came into each other's lives on February 16th, 2003 so it's a convenient way to dispense with Valentine's Day.  For us, it's unnecessary, superfluous, excessive.  And it's also, you know, stupid.

And, every year, on October 22nd, I am reminded of how lucky I am that she doesn't buy into all this wedding anniversary theme horseshit.  

Wood.

Paper.

Formica.

Neoprene heat-resistant rubber.

Anthracite.

I mean, don't worry, ConsumerWorld-- I got her something, but I don't need you to provide direction as to the requisite raw materials.  I'm not that dumb; it's not that deep.  Her mother, while descending on us last weekend, asked what anniversary this is, meaning the "traditional gift theme".  My wife, absently petting the dog, mumbled, "I don't know-- Spandex?"

And I love that.

I love that things like that, that other people buy into (which, if it works for you, rock on) are pretty much a joke to us.  Because, really?  Life's silly enough without all that silliness, and that pressure, and that prescriptive-ness.  

Tomorrow my wife and I will celebrate being married for seven years.  I don't know what the "traditional gift" is, and, as I'm sure you can figure out by now, I don't care.  I'm not going to Google it, though you can if it makes you feel better, and I'll love you just the same, you inquisitive little scallion-face.  I don't know.  Maybe it's the meds, but I kind of want to run down the street naked screaming because I love my wife so much.  I want to stand on the roof and shout that I love a woman who thinks roses'n'chocolates are dumb.  

And maybe they're not, and maybe they are, but whatever they are; they're just not her.

She's Pippi Longstocking.

She's Stargirl.  

She's Margot Tenenbaum.  

I get to go to sleep and wake up every morning with my favorite person, my buddy, my pal around, knock around, be silly and be sad together buddy.  And that's the coolest fucking thing in the world.  I'd have to be one lousy stupid fuck to not blog about that tonight-- for this is my running down the street naked, this is my standing on the rooftop screaming, this is my P'TANG YANG KIPPERBANG!

I love this.  This crazy fucking marriage.  Yes, there's bizarre inlaws and random shit all over our house and I'm succumbing and resisting all at the same time and there's change and there's sameness and there's a Volvo outside and babies asleep under blankies and the dog is splayed out on the couch like a five dolla handie-handie washie-washie and I'm getting grayer and she just looks better and better with every haircut and every Modcloth dress and it's not always easy but it'd be pretty fucking boring if it was and it's almost two hours to bed and two hours till tomorrow and it'll be seven years and I can't wait to give her her gift.

Me: I just want to say one word to you.

Her: Yes, sir.

Me: Are you listening?

Her: Yes, I am.

Me: Spandex.

Her: Exactly how do you mean?

Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Robinson.