by Patti
I have a confession to make: I complain about my husband more than I should. Truth of the matter is, he is actually a pretty good guy. Yes, he is a Grinch during the holidays, he acts like snow freezes his very soul, he is quick with a judgment and slow with a compliment, he is a perfectionist, and he can quite easily be a total pain in the ass.
He also takes care of his family, he makes me laugh, he loves our daughter fiercely, he is responsible and smart and resourceful; he is highly independent and confident and without a doubt follows his own rules and nobody else's. For all these reasons, I love him.
I also love the fact that, as masculine and macho as he is, he can iron the shit out of a shirt, he knows how to sew, he cleans better than I do times a thousand, and, whenever he is from off work and I am not, I come home to something like this:
Why am I saying all of this? Because, having been with M for 22 (Twenty! Two!) years -- 12 of those married -- I can easily fall into a state of forgetting to appreciate. Yes, he may be guilty of the same, but I can only speak for myself here -- and I will.
This weekend, after M and S had already gone to bed, I was relishing my late-night alone time, watching bad television all by myself, when suddenly my left foot started acting possessed. My toes started doing that crazy, uncontrolled "spread out" kind of thing, where they get really straight and start moving apart, and, if it wasn't so damned painful, you might just simply stare at those toes and enjoy the show. This has happened before; it usually happens after a particularly intense workout and not enough water, and, having worked out that day, I figured that's what it was.
But then I saw this giant lump form on the top of my foot, and no matter how I stretched that foot, or bent my toes backward and forward, my foot felt more and more stuck and painful, and that lump started looking kind of... black. That's when I accepted that I was probably thisclose to death; that that lump was a blood clot that was moments from dislodging and making its speedy journey towards my lungs, or better yet! My brain! And I hastily limped my way to our bedroom, snapped on the light and woke M from a deep slumber to make him promise that, if I died, he was to celebrate Christmas with our daughter in a non-Grinchy way.
M sat up in bed and humored me. He studied the offending black lump, he poked at it, massaged it, and made me put my feet up on the wall and stretch my calves. He also reminded me I hadn't worked out in a couple of weeks and had probably overdone it at the gym. He also pointed out that I always sat in my special "deformed" manner that meant my foot was suffocated by my ass for far longer than was appropriate for a foot be suffocated by an ass, and that, like it or not, that ugly black lump was actually on both of my feet... see? Right there! I studied my feet and saw that he was right: I had some pretty ugly feet. My toes started to calm down and the lump relaxed. For the moment, I was spared.
Relieved, I kissed him good night and headed back for the living room to turn off the lights and the television and Dr. Google The Lump, and I thought about it: For 22 years this man has been by my side. He's made my cry, he's made me laugh, he's disappointed me, he's surprised me, he's taken care of me and I've taken care of him. I've loved him, I've hated him, I've needed him, I couldn't stand him. Because of it, despite it, we made a family, we are a family, and no matter how often I kind of want to kill him, this remains the one constant: We're in it together, for better or for worse.
