I am totally besotted with my husband, and he thinks I’m pretty swell, too
This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am about to relate. Also, I stole that line from Dickens, another thing that must be distinctly understood because I don’t enjoy being sued by dead people.
In early September my husband turned 50, which in the weird world he inhabits means he’s eligible for retirement.
Now, that’s not going to happen, not in September anyway. There are a lot of reasons: We’re still supporting college students, three of our kids are planning missions, we have a house with a mortgage …
… and if he retires in September, we’ll both be in prison by October, locked up on charges of snarkiness with intent to annoy.
The problem is one of time off.’ He just doesn’t do it very well. While I could sit in the middle of 600 pounds of unfolded laundry and read a novel for eight hours straight, he considers perusing the instruction manual for the backhoe he’s rented to do a little yard work’ an slothful act punishable by firing squad. The years that our church meetings go from 9:00 to noon are the most trying of our marriage; he simply can’t handle all those uninterrupted Sabbath hours. Give him a 3-day weekend, and by Monday night he’ll be kicking holes in the walls just to have a new project to occupy his energy-an act I fully support, by the way.
Why support the hole kicking / hole repairing lunacy? Because otherwise, he starts paying attention to me. And he’s not thinking, “Hey, there’s my beautiful wife of 27 glorious years,” like he does at the end of a normal work day. It’s more along the lines of, “Have you always brushed your teeth with your left hand? We’ve got to do something about that,” spoken in the language of the terminally bored.
Needless to say, just thinking about decades of all that time off gives me acid reflux.
Just once, before he retires, I’d love to wake up one morning and announce that I was taking a ‘day off’ and spending it with him in the place where he works. No warning, no chance for him to gracefully bow out-just, “I’ll meet you in the car, right after you change, because I know you weren’t really going to wear that shirt out of the house.”
Of course, my husband’s super-secret job precludes my actually doing this-sheesh, I’m not even allowed in the parking lot-but a girl can dream. I’d follow him around the office, making loaded observations like, “My goodness, you’re typing fast. Is that report late or something?” or “You sure do spend a lot of time talking about golf with your co-workers. Good thing no one’s out there robbing banks or plotting terror attacks or doing whatever it is you get paid to prevent.”
My favorite would be just hanging out in the same room with him, waiting to be entertained. I wouldn’t say much, just smile at him and look expectantly while he tried to read my mind. “She’s hungry. She wants to take a walk. No, wait. A movie. That’s it. She’d like to see a movie.”
And when he finally broke down and asked what we should do together, I’d shrug and say, “Oh, you know, whatever you want to do.” Because it’s no fun if you have to be the party planner, too.
So then, when he suggested we go out and get something to eat, I’d say, “Hmm, I’m not sure we can really afford that. Why don’t you just whip up something here?” And when he admitted that it’s a lot easier for him to just drive to Wendy’s and buy a salad and a large Diet Coke every day, I’d just nod my head and say, “Huh.”
“How can you work at such a cluttered desk?”
“Aren’t you going to return that phone call?”
“This mail’s been sitting here a long time. Seems like someone would have opened it by now.”
Oh, the lovely, productive day off I’d have, puttering around the place where my husband works, helping him become more efficient and pointing out all the ways that I’d do things differently.
And I know he’d appreciate it! Having me close by, auditing his every move, second-guessing his every decision, rifling through his stuff and muttering, “How does anyone find anything around here?”-all of this would help him relax and enjoy the routine he’s worked out for himself over the last three decades. It certainly would not have him grinding his teeth to the gums and ordering contraband Xanax off the Internet.
Oh, well. I’ll never get to share a special day like this with my beloved, at least not until he retires. At that point, I’ll be sure to join him in his workshop for some quality time together.
“Hey, honey?” I’ll say. “Put down that manual and come over here. I want to show you how I’d kick holes in the wall.”
