He and I

We usually work well together in spite of our different properties, he and I. Like a big chunk of ice in a tepid glass of water, we each take on some of the other’s form when combined, and try to blend our uniqueness into a viable whole.

My husband thinks simply and I tend to complicate things. If he were writing the paragraph above it would read, “We’re just two very different people trying to make it work.” My world is a giant IQ test. A lifelong quest to connect the dots, see the patterns and make connections. His life’s maxim is reflected in the James Taylor song, “The Secret Of Life” (…is enjoying the passage of time).

He’s content. And I’m not.

Ever.

It’s both what I admire and what frustrates me the most about him. I pray everyday to be, more of that which seems to come so easily to him.

He refuses to write unless he has to. When an important correspondence or proposal must be drafted, he’ll sometimes ask me to edit his words before they are sent, because he knows I love to. Write, that is. At times, his assignments make me uneasy because I know that, deep down, he’s really, really hoping I’ll just say, “it’s perfect as is” and we can call it a day. But he knows that that day will probably never come, not because his writing is so bad, but because I will never see anything as perfect.
He sees what’s right and likes it when I do, too. But I tend to see what’s wrong. His cup is half full and mine is half gone. Some psychologists agree that those who see more of what’s wrong usually have the more accurate view. All I know is that being accurate isn’t all it’s cracked up to be so I try to let him influence me more in this area.

He dislikes reading, but he’ll read my work because, one, it’s usually short and, two, it’s important to me and, therefore it is to him. I love to read, but since becoming a mom, I can no longer finish a book in what I would consider a reasonable amount of time. So I resort to magazine articles instead so I can still feed my brain and feel some sense of accomplishment.

I want to fill my mind with information. He wants to empty his mind of information. Unwinding at the end of the day is vital to his existence. He loves to watch TV to turn off and chooses programs that tend to think for him. I usually consider that kind of TV, a turn off, as it does nothing for my mind other than create a void that begs to be filled with something substantial.

Sometimes I wish that I could find stupid things funny. I try, really I do. But laughter doesn’t come as easily for me. He loves to laugh. He says he’s just an “old shoe” because I don’t laugh at him anymore. I guess I must have, early on in our relationship, or he wouldn’t be missing it. Maybe it’s just easier to laugh at life when you are 18.

He avoids conflict. I seem to create it. So we play this game of hide and seek. I seek out the stimulation that healthy debate provides me. And he hides in locations expertly found throughout his childhood that I’ll never hope to find. No “olly olly oxen free” rule for our game. He won’t come out until I walk away, which I usually end up doing. He’s relieved and I’m frustrated.

He goes to bed and wakes up early. I stay up late and never want to get up, but have to anyway. Even as I type, he’s been asleep for 6 hours. He’ll practically bounce out of bed when the alarm goes off at 6 in the morning ready to greet the day. I’ll peer through one sleepy eye at my smiling son, my 7 a.m. wake up call, with an audible groan, then get up to take the boys to school and spend the rest of the day wishing I could somehow just go back to bed. This nocturnal vs. early bird thing has always been a source of contention between us. He wishes I’d come to bed with him early to “bond” (sex) more often, and I wish he’d stay up later to “bond “(talk) with me. We both take our internal clocks being out of sync personally and have yet to find a workable solution to the problem.

He is extremely prompt and yet we are rarely on time. I’m always running behind. However, I’m not worried about being late to my own funeral because he will finally have utter and complete control over what time we get somewhere together. Until that day comes, he tries to be very patient with me as he sits in the car while I go through my various last minute, adrenaline rush rituals, before finally being able to pull the back door closed behind me. I convince him that there are benefits to coming back home to everything done and in its place. Isn’t it worth being a few minutes late? I know the answer to that…

We have danced for 22 years in a tall glass of life and love, he and I. Sometimes dancing with, and at other times around one another. At times we crowd each other out and push against the sides that hold us in. At other times we blend together effortlessly. Water melting ice and ice cooling water in tandem.
Two distinct forms of one love.