By Amy Gesenhues
As of tomorrow, I will have known my husband exactly 20 years, 19 of which we’ve spent married.
I thought it was so romantic, the two of us barely old enough to file taxes, marrying exactly one-year from the day we met.
Now, I know the most romantic thing about us is that we’ve stayed married. (So far.)
Last weekend, we found ourselves yelling at each at the edge of our backyard. I walked out to ask when he was going to be finished. The weed-eater he was holding was still running. He had on plastic, see-through goggles and the noise canceling earphones he wears when he mows were around his neck.
“When I’m done,” he yelled to me over the buzz of the weed-eater.
I gave him that look. My head slightly tilted, my hands on my hips, an eye-roll then a stare.
“You’ve been out here three hours.”
I wanted to play tennis later that day and was trying to determine if I needed to feed the kids before I left, or if he could take over dinner duty.
From there the conversation went from zero to 60 in about five seconds – 60 being his utter frustration over my lack of interest in the state of our landscape.
“I’ve been out here all day, and still need to weed the front, and you’re complaining because you want to go play tennis.”
Writing it all down now, I see he had a valid point.
My husband is most fulfilled with a job well-done. He’s a big proponent of prep work, and likes to start his day by listing all the things he plans on accomplishing.
I like to play. The last thing I want to hear first thing in the morning is a list of things I have to do. I have no regrets spending a day drinking coffee, reading, staying in my robe until noon. Continue Reading…