Happens every year, right about this time.
The gears of matrimony are suddenly running about a quart low on oil.
Suddenly, the sliced cheese I didn't get sealed back up in the refrigerator draws a sigh and a long-suffering look from my domestic partner of 40 years. (I've pointed out many times that 40 years is longer than most murderers serve in prison.)
Those supposedly resealable envelopes aren't that resealable, if you ask me (which I notice you didn't). It's fine if you've got all the time in the world, and the dexterity of a brain surgeon, to make the grooves line up perfectly to protect your precious slices of Gouda or Swiss.
A busy guy's in a hurry to eat his ham sandwich, though, and doesn't have time to fool with packaging.
The long suffering isn't hers alone. Oh, no. This time of year, the old re-arranging the dish washer deal gets a little old. No matter how I put dirty dishes in the dishwasher during the day, she re-arranges everything in the evening before she fires up the dishwasher.
I say bowls need to be perfectly upside down, so they aren't wet when I empty the washer in the morning. With her, not so much. And she puts all the knives together, spoons together, and forks together, like they're old friends having a soiree or something. I throw them all in together.
Who cares?
She does.
This time of year, mentioning cheese wrappers or bowl positioning could touch off a doozy of a, well, let's say, unpleasantness.
Don't get us started on turning t-shirts right side out when loading the washing machine. I say inside out is fine. But for her, not turning my t-shirts right-side out is proof she married an inconsiderate barbarian.
Here's something you probably don't know. If you're married to a health care professional like I am, your every ache and pain is not of primary concern to them after a long day of addressing other people's problems. Sad to say, many health care professionals don't want to hear about your latest owie as soon as they walk in the door.
For years, I referred to my wife in print as “Nurse Ratched,” because no matter what kind of ailment I would come up with, she'd always say, “I've seen people way sicker than you.” To which I replied, “You've seen people who are DEAD! Is that what I have to do to get some sympathy around here?”
So why, you ask, is all this stuff worse this time of year?
Because nerves are frayed, patience is running thin, and it's time for Old Dave to head for the cabin in the Snowy Range. We'll give those gears of matrimony a much-needed rest, a quart of oil, and a break from the incessant marital bliss (which I've noticed tapers off appreciably after multiple decades).
The other day I said I might take a load of supplies up to the cabin (it's 120 miles west) and come back that evening. She was downright disappointed that our time apart - which is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, for Pete sake - was going to be delayed. The fun of not thinking about dinner, not having me underfoot, and doing whatever ding-dong thing she wants to do was going to take a little longer to begin.
The cabin isn't her thing. She conducted an archaeological dig in Colorado in grad school, and got her fill of camping. Today, her idea of roughing it is slow internet.
She, on the other hand, has been to 80 – I am not kidding - Elton John concerts. Here's the rule: She doesn't make me to go to Elton concerts, and I don't make her to go to the cabin. Sounds crazy, but it works.
An old friend said last year, “You know, I love my wife dearly. But I get the feeling she really likes it when I head up to the mountains for a couple days, and she gets some time in town to herself.”
To which I replied, “And it took you 50 years of marriage to figure this out?”
So anyway, blessed Cabin Season has finally arrived, and not a moment too soon.
Let the heart-growing-fonder business begin.
With some therapeutic separation.
Works for us.
Dave Simpson can be reached at: DaveSimpson145@hotmail.com
