Hubby and I took a quick trip over the weekend. “3 days for thirty years,” we called it.
Lol, I am just kidding….maybe.
I have spent the better part of the last thirty years aggravating hubby for sport, and I have loved every minute of it.
Well, most of it, anyway. Like all relationships, we have experienced hardships, and there were a couple of times I honestly wasn’t sure our relationship would survive.
Because we were committed.
Not because we have settled into some level of comfort, which, undoubtedly, is true. But because, still, after thirty years, we wake up every morning and choose each other.
I thought about that as I sprawled out in my beach chair, peeking at him over my iPad while gracing him with a smile or a scowl, depending on what memory I was reliving when I got caught.
Like the time he left a pair of socks on the bedroom floor for longer than I deemed socially acceptable, and when I inquired as to why, he said the socks were “art.”
The next day, after he left for work, I dedicated an hour of my life to shredding the socks into a million pieces and carefully placing them back where he left them. When hubby got home, he took one look at the heap of cloth that was once his socks and asked,
He found the clothes hamper after that experience and has never forgotten where it was. And, to this day, the only art adorning our home has been chosen specifically by me.
That memory earned hubby a smile.
While immersing ourselves in a state of nothingness on our little beach non-adventure, hubby asked what I was reading so intently, since he witnessed me waging war against the sunlight to read the kindle version of a book in the two-inch spot of shade our beach umbrella afforded.
“Dark mafia romance stories.”
“Why are you reading those?” he asked, taken aback by the degree in which he deemed these stories to have detoured from my usual literary jaunts.
I detest romance stories unless they are situated within Middle Earth.
“I wanted to get a better glimpse at the subtlety in which gaslighting operates, and psychological thrillers wear their psychology on their sleeves so I needed something less obvious.”
“And you think dark mafia romance stories offers that?”
I shrugged my shoulders while suggesting, “You’ve gotta start somewhere.”
He processed this information with the precision of a man who has spent years dedicated to working with numbers and trapped in logical thought.
He then asked if I had picked up any pointers. I could tell by his expression he wasn’t thinking about gaslighting and I laughed.
“Well, that’s disappointing,” he responded as his expression shifted back to something neutral.
“Yeah,” I said, “but only because we don’t have the right equipment.”
That earned a slight eyebrow raise as he stared out onto the ocean.
Moments later, he turned his attention fully towards me. The expression he wore was pure deviousness.
“You know, we could always…”
The possibilities he was considering quickly morphed into an expression of defeat and he returned his attention to the ocean.
I laughed. Not because his deviousness had been squashed, but because mine had been elevated.The entire exchange was blog-worthy, and the absolute horror hubby would experience at having to read his words in print filled me with absolute joy.
Because I love this man. I love aggravating him for sport. It gives me great pleasure and an immense feeling of accomplishment knowing that I am the number one reason why his blood pressure remains elevated.
Happy anniversary, honey. I would apologize for this post but we both know I am not sorry. Thank you for choosing me, and God help you, because, after thirty years, I still choose you.
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