My wife asks me lots of questions. How are you? How does this sound? Why don’t you listen to me? However, one question she never asks me is why I never write about her. Of course, if she’s right about the whole listening thing, maybe she does ask this question. Hmmm …
Anyway, it’s true that I never write anything publicly about my wife. I’ve been thinking about this recently. The truth is, if--BOOM—I were to drop dead today, historians would look back at what I've written and conclude that the love of my life is either Michael Jordan or Jimmer Fredette. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s not actually true.
So today I decided to write a blog post especially for her, as a birthday gift (yes, I’m that cheap). And yet even now I have no idea what to write. I’ve thought about this post for weeks now, and I’ve been on my laptop for literally three hours, just staring at the screen. And I got nothing. The idea of writing how I really feel about my wife is …well, embarrassing. Saying stuff like “I love her,” “she makes me feel so happy,” “I can’t imagine living without her,” and so forth, makes me want to poke my eyes out with a shiv. I can only imagine what it would do to others. And yet it’s all true. Every gooey bit.
In some ways I am the kind of guy that can open up and bare my soul about even the most pointless thing. And in other ways, I just can’t. I could write a novel about fantasy football, but reality marriage …
But I’ve thought a lot lately about an Avett Brothers lyric: “If you have love in your heart let it show while you can.” So, just in case—BOOM—I drop dead, here goes.
I love that my wife makes curry with me. I love how she always insists I go to the doctor, and eat my vegetables, and stop drinking Coke. I love her XXL t-shirt called “Chicago” (don’t ask). I love that she still thinks she’s taller than me, even though clear evidence would indicate I am four inches taller. I love her crooked mouth. I love that she loves my crooked mouth. I love everything about her face. I love that she bawled at the end of Godfather II (who does that?!). I love that she read the final Harry Potter book with me all day and all night the day it came out. I love that she forgave me when I went ahead and finished it after she fell asleep. I love that she loves to read my stuff. I love that I know exactly which parts of this post will make her laugh, and which parts will make her embarrassed. I love who my wife is. I love that to her core she is a good person. I love that if life’s great challenge was a large multiple choice test where we choose between right and wrong, I’d always be peeking over to see what she put. I love that she’d then feel guilty about me cheating off of her. I love the way she sings opera whenever she makes a mistake in sports. I love the way she sings to our kids when she puts them to bed. I love the way they adore her, and she them. I love that she loves all of her family unconditionally. I love that she’s my family. I love that my wife is both perfect, and so very flawed. I love that as flawed as this attempt to write about my wife is, she will like it, even if the rest of you are currently looking for the nearest shiv.
I adore you, Tara.