My husband and I are nothing alike. I love the man, but I confess, sometimes I look at him and think, “Is it certain that we are both human?”
I question our species-similarity after something happens that poignantly reinforces our differences. I might see him cozying up with the History Channel (what is the deal with watching now-dead people shoot guns or learning the genesis of the hot dog for the 400th time??). Or he may fail to notice the old lady dolled up in pink hair and spandex in line in front of us at Walmart (just observe The People, for pity’s sake!) Perhaps he will tote venison (that he may or may not have killed himself) into the house “just to stock up” and I can do nothing but stare at him.
We’ve got the rings, we’ve got the love, but I do not think we can claim the same home planet.
Recently, something happened that reinforced this truth as it had never before been reinforced. It was a Tuesday night. I had been out and pulled in at 8:30pm. I expected to find everyone in bed or snuggled up in front of the TV. Wrong. Very wrong. The children were asleep, but as it turns out, my husband was BUILDING HORSEHOE PITS IN THE DRIVEWAY. He had staged the scene with an inordinate number of floodlights, large mechanical equipment, various-sized saws and random piles of wood.
I stood there, chilled not only by the cool spring night air but the dawning realization that my husband was not mentally well. He explained that he “wanted to do something to relax.”
It was a full minute before I found myself able to speak. I realized I had to choose my words very carefully. There was the whole supporting-your-spouse thing to consider.
I thought of cross-word puzzles, On-Demand episodes of crappy reality TV, the newest Hunger Games rip-off book I’ve been dying to read…anything more relaxing that would involve no 2x4s.
Say there was somehow extra energy. E-mails, dishes, laundry, that toothpaste dried to the bathroom door (don’t ask)… If, God forbid, there was nothing left to do that didn’t include tools, wouldn’t any extra building energies be better spent on fixing the ginormous hole in our ceiling? Or the hole in the wall. Or the hole in the floor. Why are there always so many holes? (really, really wishing I could’ve figured out a way to work in a “That”s what she said” here).
Source
Painting them bright colors? A whole other night of fun.
Finally I gathered my words and spoke, “I love you anyway.”
I don’t think he even heard me over all of the sawing. Oh well.
I fled to the safety of the horseshoe pit building-free zone of the house. Stuffing in ear plugs and grabbing for my Kindle, I worked hard to shut out sacrilege against reasonable means of relaxation that was occurring in my own driveway.
Weird thing of it? I think we might have both been pretty happy that night.
Also, I solemnly vow to you, my dear readers, that if you are ever wondering what this Mom of the Year is doing on a Tuesday night at 8:30, it will never, ever be building horseshoe pits of any kind. You can just cross that off the list of possibilities.
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