You know, the "why don't you take the minutes" and "could you get me some more sweet tea?"
statement-not-really-question kind of day.
A I'll-sit-in-the-spare-room-on-the-old-blue-couch-and-write-poetry kind of day.
A worse-than-6th-grade-with-unshaven-legs-in-shorts-season-kind of day.
Just thinking about this day makes my eyes water and my dog inch closer in concern.
And then ---
my better half arrives to tempt me off the old blue couch with tidings of dinner.
I scowl at his nerve. I'm having a pity party, for Pete's sake!
Just as a tear threatens to snake down my nose, he lifts his arms into the air and begins to flap
them in war eagle fashion. He brings his face down close to mine and stares at me with patient
brown eyes. I want to maintain my frown but my resolve melts as I stare back and comprehend the goofy blessing of this husband of mine.
Stubborn, I reject his dinner and he goes downstairs as I try to continue my doom-and-gloom poetry, but all I can think of is how lucky I am and how good dinner smells.
He reappears and tells me that he is going to eat it all himself, and I realize that I must return the favor and prevent him from self-sabotage. After all, it is time for dessert.
No comments:
Post a Comment