Tomorrow, my husband and I will have been married for twenty-two years.
Last Sunday, Younger announced, “If the two of you ever divorce, it will be over straws.”
Because I am capable of accepting the straw and the cup in one hand at a drive-thru window. And my husband wants to be crowned king for a day so that he can call an end to such shenanigans from a food service employee. A straw and cup must be passed through the window separately. Yes, he would waste his king-of-the-day status on straws.
Not that straws are the only issue in our marriage. We have also argued whether a tree or a pothole did more damage to the alignment of my truck.
I hit the pothole, by the way.
He insists on using words like “north” and “south” when giving directions. Like I have time for such vague concepts.
I think he should wear clothes in colors that are allowed on the same field of play.
He thinks I should just accept my hair will upon occasion stick in every direction like I’ve been playing with electrical sockets.
And then there is that whole math thing…
In twenty-two years, we’ve laughed.
And we’ve cried.
And we’ve loved.
Because we’re married.
And that’s what we promised we would do.
Who knew life was so long, anyway?