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.
