"I've learned to hate you in the last ten years." - Marion, Raiders of the Lost Ark

 

The Mrs. certainly did not sign on for sweaty, testosterone-filled excitement all of her married years, yet, lo, here she is, stuck with a gaggle of sweaty, testosterone-filled rowdy boys making her neat house smelly an icky.

Ten years. I believe ten years is the gestation period of an elephant, but I’m going off of hazy memory and probably just made that up. Ten years is also the length of time that The Mrs. has been married to me, and has carried the coveted title of “The Mrs.”. It’s a lot of punishment, but, if there’s a woman up for the task, it’s The Mrs.

Being married to me isn’t easy, in fact it’s probably one of the more difficult jobs in the world. First, well, there’s the obsession. The Mrs. chronicles one of my obsessions here.

Then, there is the fact that I’m picky as a billionaire at a debutante ball. The Mrs. indicates that there are foods that The Mrs. dearly loves that she has rarely eaten in the last decade (broccoli, squash, and, well, she’s sure there are many more, but it’s been so long since she’s eaten them she’s not sure if she likes them anymore or not). Me? If there’s a nasty cheese I want to put on chili dogs and then slather in yellow mustard? Game on, even though The Mrs. is certain I’m eating dirty sweat socks. Yet, she loves me.

My inability to see messes on the floor that my autonomic nervous system allows me to step around, yet my brain does not seem to recognize that any problem exists, though there may be a pile of Elmos® surrounded by baby clothes (and not clean baby clothes, if you know what I mean) right outside my bedroom door, stacked up to the six foot level.

I steal The Mrs. white sweat socks. Without permission. Even if there are the frilly scrunchy ones that gather in a girlish fashion at the ankle. Then I wear them outside, shoeless, in a journey through mud, and return them to her drawer, thinking that she wouldn’t notice.

Oh, and the first two years of our marriage, I used The Mrs. towel. One day, The Mrs. exploded in a fuzzball of rage, and indicated that it wasn’t cute. Okay, had my own since then.

I’m (hopefully) assuming that there are some redeeming qualities that make up for all my gross maleness. Why wouldn’t The Mrs. want to kiss me after I’ve spent enough time outside to sweat three quarts into my shirt and am covered with all manner of shredded plant matter from using every power tool that I own to keep back the tide of vegetable supremacy for just another week. Yup. Don’t see why a dirty, sweaty male like me doesn’t deserve a hug.

I took her out for our tenth anniversary, to a nice restaurant. Not knowing Houston, this particular nice restaurant was not the “romantic dinner” nice restaurant, rather it was, “out having a party” restaurant. The Mrs. took it in stride, though she boycotted the incessant stream of waiters that appeared at our side at the slightest provocation. Did I mention that I didn’t get her flowers because I got up late? Did I mention that I haven’t gotten her us an anniversary present yet? On our 10th anniversary? Am I evil, or what??

At least her towel is her own, now.

Thankfully, The Mrs. is too lazy to date. Besides, she knows all of my faults, and yet still tolerates loves me. What a woman. The Mrs. has extended my contract for sixteen more years, until Pugsley is ready for college.

After that I’m on a year-to-year, The Mrs. says. She says that about year 14 I need to start bringing my “A” game.