I know I left the mess of the century in our kitchen this weekend. I also know you’ve heard jolly good enough about how tired I am and how much I have to get done. I know I’m about to head off to work without scrubbing a single pot. I know you’ll come home to a pile of moldy dishes and a note from me asking if you’ll take over laundry duty this week.
But, here’s the deal: I went to my sister’s wedding this weekend. I stayed up late making little goodies for her reception and writing her intimate details about “wife stuff.” I took an on-line exam and wrote a paper. I drove across the state and ransacked our savings account for gas money and midnight runs to the drug store for 24-hour antiperspirant and rat-tail combs. I left our midget-ly Pie in the Sky, as I have so many other times, in a tizzy, dragging you along on my drunkenly adventure without proper invitation or introduction, knowing you’d pick up my pieces, knowing that, as you did this morning, you’d pick up a dishcloth and wash my dishes, pick up a smile and hush my bewilderment.
Here’s the other part of the deal: Every time I go to a wedding or interact with another couple, I realize all over again, how happy I am to be married to exactly the man you are. I married precisely the right temperament and personality for me. We are absolutely the right couple for us.
I love you, Mr. Goodbar. Thanks for not saying a thing about my disaster this weekend. And, I hope you know deeply, deeply how much I appreciate you, not just because you take on my failed domesticity but also because we are precisely right for each other I am so happy to be with you.