I imagine everything I could say about my husband has already been said by someone at some point in time. I imagine every one of my emotions has been felt before. I imagine our relationship—and its many ups and downs—isn't really all that unique. Love is love is love. And I believe that. I believe I don't love him better or more than you love your partner. Of course I also believe that love is thrown around when it shouldn't. It's used to be forgiven, to be obeyed, to be depended on, to appease, to rid oneself of guilt, when an "I'm sorry" or a "thank you" would more appropriately suffice.
Regardless, I imagine Mike and I have had the same shitty fights you and yours have had; fights over the dishes and the dog and the bills and the fact that we'll never really need that large of a television, unless we're planning to watch The Office from CALIFORNIA. I also realize we aren't the only couple in the history of the world to have our own inside jokes, little traditions that make us laugh, that bond us as a couple. And what I bring to the table can't be too far off from what most wives offer up: DAMN NEAR PERFECTION, AM I RIGHT?
Love is universal and it's literally everywhere and although it's constantly falling apart and cracking down the middle for some, it's still always in the air. The world is never without it. And I imagine that's why— in the midst of wars and terror and cruelty and shocking disregard for life—the human race is still standing.
I've been kind of a bitch these last few days. No, really. I have. And, yes, a lot has been piled on my shoulders, and a lot of heavy metaphorical bricks have been chunked directly at my head, and I do think I have valid reasons to be grouchy, but I don't (and never will) have valid reasons to project my rage directly at my husband. Oh, and have I mentioned he's also injured and in pain and he can't adequately karate chop me when I'm being difficult? He just gets to put up with me. Envy him.
This afternoon, after about three hours of really focused and productive work; work that was crucial and important and DEADLINED, my laptop just turned off. Decided that, no, working wasn't on its agenda today or, come to think of it, EVER AGAIN. And seeing as my crisis management skills are honed just so, the sentence that escaped my mouth after assessing the situation was, "OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK." And then I screamed for Mike to come quick and DO SOMETHING.
A few hours later, and one trip to Frys and then another to Best Buy and close to $100 charged on my husband's PAID OFF credit card and some back rubbing and brilliance conjuring later (neither of the last two things on my part; although I don't think you were confused about that, were you?), my files were pulled from the hard drive and transferred to our desktop. I finished most of my work just minutes ago.
I imagine I'm not the first wife to cry in the middle of Best Buy, with visions of yelling bosses and little sleep and months of preparation down the drain swirling through her head. I imagine I'm not the first woman to look at her smart, capable, unbelievably-good-with-computers husband and plead for him to fix this, make this better, just do something or I will die. Seriously. And I know I'm not the only woman who acts unreasonably hormonal and bitchy only to need saving when she deserves anything but a familiar hand to reach out and, yes, save her.
I know I'm not the only person to sometimes feel as if I don't deserve the partner—the life—I have.
But it's worth mentioning all the same.
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Oh, if you're interested in what I cooked over the holiday, take a look.