A brief reflection on 20 years of marital incompetence.
We were not best friends when we got married.
I’m not sure he knew my middle name until the priest said it out loud.
We are not best friends now.
More like comrades. Comrades allied through sex, procreation and a poor credit rating.
We go to bed angry.
And wake up angry. And stay angry way past the point of remembering what we are angry about.
We like our problems to fester and rot.
We are not schooled in the art of compromise.
We are emotionally immature.
We do not have carefully reasoned discussions about finances, child-rearing or do-it-yourself home improvement projects.
He is generally right. I am generally wrong. I get mad. I go around the corner and secretly flip him off in protest.
So I am emotionally immature is what I meant.
We are financially challenged.
We have not grown and matured as a couple.
When we met, we were young and foolish, living in our thatched hut, spending our days fishing, swimming and diving for pearls. Two beautiful young adults exploring our sexuality bound only by the jungle.
Or maybe that’s the plot of The Blue Lagoon.
Replace Brooke Shields with less-attractive version of Mayim Bialik from the TV show Blossom and the above picture would be more accurate.
Let’s just say that we were young and foolish when we met and totally into each other…bound only by our Taco Bell schedules.
Now we are middle-aged and foolish and totally into each other…bound only by our significantly-higher body fat percentages.
We have been married for 20 years today.
We have no idea why.
And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
This about sums it up.