I could see my husband was beaming with pride over his innovation of finding a way to stop the vertical blinds hanging in our bedroom from clapping together when the air conditioner came on at night. I cringed and had to cup a hand on my mouth to incarcerate the flood of words ready to pour out. Lined across the bottom of the blinds, like a rigid sentry on serious duty, was a…(give me second, here)…POOL NOODLE! A six-foot, bright royal blue, with a slight kink in the middle, pool noodle! The ceiling fan was on in the bedroom and–my husband confidently demonstrated–the blinds were pressed snuggly against the window, quiet as a church mouse.

I shuddered. I wanted to growl. If he could have read my thoughts, we’d probably be in marriage counseling. But, I smiled and made one teeny, tiny request, “Could we keep the noodle under our bed during the day?”

Andy and I have been married for over thirty years after only knowing each other for two weeks before we tied the knot (we weren’t living for God back then). We always joke that, if we had known each other longer before marriage, we never would have said, “I do.” When they say “opposites attract,” Andy and I are the poster children for that ad.

My husband would do anything for me. He’s my number one fan when it comes to my writing–even though he hates to read. He does dishes, irons his own clothes, pushes a vacuum when I need help, and so much more. But…well, we just aren’t always on the same page.

COVID-19 quarantine experience. I’ve been loving it and also hating it. I’m not a big girl, but I have put on a few pounds these past four months of staying home all day. One morning, I announced to my husband that I was cutting out most junk foods and making better choices (I don’t diet–that’s a bad word in my book). As always, Andy was so supportive. Until two days later…

“Hey, hon, I’m gonna go sit on the bed and read awhile,” I tell him. Adjusting the pillows behind my back, I hear the telltale crackle of plastic wrap and peel back the pillows to discover a pack of Oreo cookies and a Reese’s Fast Break chocolate bar under the pile. Then, Andy walks in.

“Awwww,” he says. (He obviously misunderstood my look of consternation to be one of adoration for the element of surprise.) “I just got you a little something in case you get a craving.” 

Yeah, I ate them. (Well, not in one sitting, thank God.)

I adore coffee with tons of creamer. He hates coffee–only Diet Mt. Dew for him. He’s a morning person. I’m a die-hard night owl. Andy dreams of skydiving off a cliff down to a glorious valley. I can’t even look over the side rail of a two-story mall without getting dizzy. I believe the iPhone is the only way to go. Andy would die before he surrendered his Android. Oh, well…we still love each other.

I drive him nuts too. Andy has one lone Ohio State Buckeyes wall calendar above his desk in our shared office. He has it all marked up with bills due, doctor appointments, etc. I, on the other hand, have a leather Filofax organizer with monthly and weekly inserts, two dot journals for organizing projects, numerous charming “to do” list sticky pads, and a host of other organizing paraphernalia. That’s just me. So, I  understood his vexation when I opened an Amazon (my BFF these days) envelope to reveal a small calendar book. 

“Regina! What in the world?! Why do you need another calendar?” Andy asked.

I didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, this is an hourly calendar for work. Everything’s remote right now at school and I have to keep my classes organized,” I smiled lovingly over at him.

But, Andy and I make it work. We love to laugh and both possess a sarcastic streak. We have matching blue lounge chairs and footstools and cook dinner together every night. Both of us own electric toothbrushes and both agree to listen to ocean sounds when we go to sleep at night. Those combos work for us and keep us from strangling one another.

Even as I type this (sitting next to him in our matching chairs with the bright blue pool noodle against the blinds next to me), I am completely distracted by the gaping hole in the bottom of his work shirt. He has a whole closet full of presentable shirts. If any of MY clothes had holes, they would already be in the Goodwill bag.

But…I reach for a sip of coffee over spitting out a complaint. He would just tell me, “It’s just a work shirt, Regina. It doesn’t really matter that much.” And, he’s right. 

Well, to him, he’s right. 

And I’m okay with that.

Disclaimer: No spouse’s feelings were injured as a result of this blog post and full permission has been granted by my spouse for its distribution. (Just laugh!)

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