Hubby and I just celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary together. We celebrated by painting the kitchen window and front door (one of those shades of white).
As of this post, it’s already been two days since our anniversary, which means I can no longer remember whether we even went out to dinner or anything. We may have had Taco Bell.
Friends and family wished us a happy anniversary on FB, and we were tagged in one of our wedding photos which showed up online. (That’s me in my Kelly green wedding dress.)
All in all, it was more fanfare than I usually think to give to our anniversary.
It’s not that I’m not happy with Hubby. I am. Very. I think we have true love.
People tell me I’m lucky to have a husband like him and I think they’re right. He is, after all: handsome, friendly, kind, forgiving, and lenient. That may seem like a strange list of attributes for the perfect husband, but personally I think that’s the right kind of man to have. (If you had to live with me you’d probably tack on a few more of those “lenient”.)
And then there are those poppy-blue colored eyes….. sigh. But when it comes to romance, we are complete opposites.
I can only take so much of all that mush. Hubby, on the other hand, is over the top.
I’m glad I have a husband who remembers every anniversary, birthday, first date, etc. I’ve heard plenty of stories from women who would give anything to have a man who brings them flowers regularly, wants to hold their hand wherever they go, tells them they’re beautiful when they’re wearing paint splattered clothes or haven’t brushed their teeth yet. (Hubby does all of those things.) But a little goes a long way for me.
I try to think more romantically for him. It ain’t easy.
Like, once, we were in the bookstore and I saw him reading a book about putting more romance in your life (as if!). A few days later I was drinking an iced tea when something caught in my throat. I started choking, and up came a little piece of paper.
“What the hell is this?” I said.
“Read it,” he replied.
So I did. I don’t remember what it said, but the gist was that Hubby had frozen little love notes in the ice cube tray. Something he’d read in that fool book. He had that tender look of love in his eyes and expectant smile on his lips. I think I was supposed to tell him how romantic that was. Instead I belted out – “You could’ve killed me!” – then spent the next half hour apologizing and trying to sooth his hurt feelings.
There was the Easter season that Hubby hid a dozen long-stemmed carnations for me to find. Instead of an Easter egg hunt, it was a flower hunt. (Okay. I have to confess. I kind of liked that one.) Still, I would’ve been just as happy with one green egg.
Luckily, I have to say, that after 22 years he’s gotten used to me. So on our anniversary I was getting the supplies together for us to paint. I was annoyed because he was procrastinating, wanting to spend a few minutes time going down memory lane and talking about our wedding.
“You know,” he said. “I’m so glad we got married. I’m totally happy with you.”
“Well, whoop-de-do,” I replied. “Let’s get this window done.”
He laughed and we got down to work. Later, when we were sitting at the table surveying our handiwork, my earlier response seemed funny to me too and I thought about writing this post.
I knew Hubby never signed on to our computer. I don’t think he knows how. He doesn’t read my blog. He doesn’t have a FB account. He doesn’t text. Computers aren’t really a big part of his life. As far as his days are concerned, what happens online isn’t part of the real world.
Still, our family and friends ARE online. They can see what I write about him. I wondered if I was being fair to him, or doing something he’d rather I didn’t do. If that was the case, I’d respect his wishes. So I asked him.
“Now that I write that blog I find I put a lot of our conversations into my posts,” I said. “You’ve become one of my favorite subject matters.”
“Uh-huh.” He stood to go into the other room.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“Whoop-de-do,” he answered, as he disappeared from view.
Ah… true love.
I’ve always told Hubby and some of my friends that if reincarnation exists, I hope I come back as a dandelion. I come by this type of thinking naturally, as I can remember a relative saying he wanted to come back as “Groshans dog”. (The implication was my dad’s dog had a better life than most people. It was true.)
People I’ve told this to usually chuckle and nod, and keep their thoughts to themselves (“she’s ’round the bend again!”), but Hubby thinks it’s a pretty cool idea.
Dandelion, as it turns out, is his favorite flower.
Yeah, we all know what Hubby is like, I’ve written about him before. (see The Light Of My Life.) I suppose, in the “strange” department, I’m the perfect match for him. But seriously, don’t we all have our quirks? I’m just admitting to mine.
I honestly don’t know how I feel about reincarnation. Part of me is disturbed by the idea of having to come back again and again until I get it right, since I can’t see myself ever getting it right!
Another part of me thinks the whole karma of having another chance is a nice thought, and can really take a load of pressure off you if you’re a control freak who is always trying to live up to your own expectations.
Some people would think that, because I say I’m a Christian, then I have no business even discussing the idea of reincarnation. Well, I realize the whole point of Christianity is that Christ covers those sins so you don’t need to come back. I have no argument there, but for this post I’m entertaining the idea of reincarnation anyway.
I guess you’d have to say my faith fits me, not any set of denominational standards or religious rules. I’m happy with it this way. We all do the best we can with how we interpret what we experience.
And then there’s the way I observe the natural world around me. I know that everything in the garden gets recycled. If nature recycles (and certainly we are part of nature), then why wouldn’t we? Someone is going to point out here that reincarnation refers to soul recycling, not our bodies, which do get recycled. But remember, I’m the person that believes plants have souls (see Ode To My Crocus).
It’s not just dead plants and clippings that recycle, most of the things we think are rot proof, really aren’t. Ever read that book The World Without Us by Alan Weisman?
So how can anyone say for sure that reincarnation does or does not belong in a person’s belief system, when life from death is all around us? No one has answers to these things, and as I said, I don’t even know if I believe in reincarnation.
But back to the dandelion thing….
My reason for being a dandelion is not because Hubby loves them, since I didn’t even know dandelion was his favorite flower until he pointed it out to me this Spring. Rather, the reason I think of “dandelion” comes from a purely logical standpoint. Logical to me, anyway.
I wouldn’t want to be just any dandelion. I’d want to be one of those dandelions in the parks, or hell strips by the side of the road.
Think about it.
The city isn’t going to bother spraying for weeds there. That’s wasted money, (Chicago Tribune – Park District dandelion policy). So you wouldn’t get “offed” by a systemic vegetation killer. And because dandelions spread like – well, weeds – you’d have lots of dandelions around you. Sort of like being with all your friends and relatives.
During your short life span you’d have the sun on your backs and the wind in your hair (er… leaves). Not to mention you and your friends would look downright gorgeous creating that beautiful swath of bright yellow. Imagine the cheery image you give the drivers as they pass!
The worst that would happen to you is you’d get your head cut off every so often when the city sent out the lawn crew. Is that so bad, as long as you can still live and grow?
Then, you’re off to your next reincarnation, having enjoyed a basically carefree “breather”, before you come back as a person again, with all their struggles and insecurities.
What do you think? By the way, anyone who’s brave enough to add comments to this off-beat, silly post, I salute you.