Last Sunday, I was in a mood. A mood. I was feeling unproductive, irritable, and ready to crawl out of my own skin. P.J. took one look at me and casually remarked, “You should go organize the bookshelves.”
I almost threw a plate at his head. Of all the sexist, demeaning, trivializing things to say, he’s telling me to go do prettifying busywork?
In not so many words, I informed him that he had made a grave error in judgement.
Without even glancing up, he said “You know you’ll feel better.”
So I stomped downstairs (quietly, though, so as not to wake the baby or disturb the children playing as far away from me as they could manage), and began grabbing books from the shelf and smacking them to the floor. Board games that had been shoved willy-nilly were flung on their sides during my slightly embarrassing tantrum. But after a moment, I realized something: Everything was in the wrong place. Monopoly should go under Settlers of Catan. The puzzles really do jive better if stacked from largest to smallest. And man, these red-spined books look terrific flanking those green and blue novels. Soon, both gigantic shelving units were arranged and curated within an inch of their lives. Color-coding, symmetry, and carefully arranged curios made the room…and my soul…a little better.
A lot better. So much better, in fact, that when P.J. came downstairs and admired the room, I let him admire the room. And when he said he was glad that I was feeling better…I thanked him. With nice words. Because honestly, isn’t that what we all want? (No, not color-coded shelves. Besides, I have those.)
Someone who gets us. Someone who knows exactly what makes us tick- even when we’re too irked and embarrassed to admit that they may be right. A partner in every sense of the word; someone who can be the stronger, better one when the need arises, and who can ask for help when the tables turn- knowing with every fiber of their being that you’re the only one who’ll (in that moment, anyhow) have the right answer. I have that kind of partnership with my obnoxiously accurate husband. And you know how I knew to recognize it?
My parents have it, too.
Yesterday marked 41 years married- and 43 years together- and a lifetime of strength, weakness, and more than one flung household object. They communicate with their eyes, with their gestures of packed lunches and warmed-up cars, and conversations that consist entirely of “Deb,” “David,” “DEBORAH.” There’s laughter, there’s so much music, and more inside jokes than could fit inside a brown Volkswagen Vanagon. We learned from the best.
We’re still learning from the best.
(Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.)
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