THE SONIC BOOMER
Let me begin by saying, I love my husband. He is kind, gentle and smart. He loves children and animals. He has the manners of a southern gentleman.
But…
Oh, yes, there’s a “but.” Because the nature of any long-term relationship, especially marriage, is that the very things that once attracted you to this person now drive you crazy. Aesop wrote, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” Mark Twain added “…and children.”
When we were dating, Mark had only one quirk that I just didn’t understand. It happened every time we went out to dinner.
He would call well in advance to ask me out, pick me up at my door (often with flowers in hand), hold the car door open for me, drive carefully, park the car so I wouldn’t step into a puddle, rush around the side to let me out, walk me to the restaurant, open that door for me, pull out my chair for me, ask me what I wanted to eat and drink, order for me and delight me with witty conversation.
Then our food would come, and, without fail, he would reach his fork over and eat something off my plate.
Off my plate! That is not good manners.
The first time it happened, I was shocked, but he is a bit of a gourmand, so I let it pass. Maybe my order so intrigued him he just had to taste it. The next time it happened, I quietly asked him if he wanted to trade plates. He responded with a “no” but offered me some of his food. (Off his plate? No!)
We did get married, but I swear to you if he continues to do this, I am leaving him. I sit there at mealtime with my fork hidden in my lap, ready to strike if he so much as reaches toward my plate. I will stab his hand with my fork. I will.
What I want to say is: “Leave my food alone! You have your own food! Keep your skanky old fork away from my stuff!”
But I suffer in silence. Why? Love.
Another thing he does is twiddle with the air conditioning in the car. I don’t touch it when he’s in there. I believe that the driver of the car is the master of his domain — the in-car temperature, the music, the speed. I grit my teeth and put up with it because, when I’m driving, I want things my way.
But let’s say I’m too cold. Let’s say that one of us likes arctic air blasting in his face until icicles form on his mustache, and one of us doesn’t. If I am cold, I timidly reach over and adjust my vent. (I do have control over my vent.) I point it up or down or away from me until the air is just right.
That’s when Mark reaches over (maybe it’s because he is kind and sensitive… I don’t know what his excuse is) and changes the temperature.
Listen, buddy, I have just ever-so-meekly adjusted my vent so that everything is perfect based on your original setting. Now you have altered that setting so my vents are incorrect again. If I readjust them, he will look at me and ask, “Well, are you cold or are you hot?” I don’t want to discuss it… I just want both of us to be happy! You do what you want, and I will adapt. Just decide how ridiculously cold you want to be!
Of course I don’t say this. Why? Love.
And, because we are in love, I’d like my readers to think those are the only two things that bug me, that everything else is absolute bliss. If you read Aesop, Twain or are married, however, you know I’d be lying. So I could go on, but I won’t.
My column is too short.
