Friends, I think I’ve figured out the secret to a happy marriage. And yes, it only took me 6.5 years.
And yes, this is a terribly materialistic story.
Right before last weekend, P.J. emailed me a listing for a gargantuan estate sale. A big ol’ antique store and theatre prop wonderland was shuttering after over forty years of collecting Chicagoland treasures. And when he sent me the email, I knew it was true love- because P.J. a) prefers to not spend money, ever, and b) he knows and I know and we currently together know that there are already way too many “treasures” in this house.
But he wanted me to know about the sale, anyhow. Because he knew that- at least for one day- he could be stoic about all that other stuff. Because the idea of me being all thrilled and running around touching shelves and flinging my hands into buttons and ephemera and knick knacks was worth the potential fall out later on in the weekend.
Here’s how I know I’m perfect for him, though: I already knew about the estate sale.
I had purposely said to myself, “Keely, your need to touch shelves and buttons and ephemera and knick knacks is not equal to or greater than P.J.’s need to feel like our bank account and storage systems are in a good place- at least for one day.” So I hadn’t told him.
And if that isn’t some Gift of the Magi shiz right there, well then, I’ll eat an O’Henry bar.
Not pictured: The hair combs and pocket watch. Still with me?
I never claimed that plot point retention was my strongest suit in high school.
(Psychology, though, I had that one down.)
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