This week it passed rather quietly, thanks to quarantine: our 20th anniversary. Holy moly, it’s weird to be this old. (Though yeah, marrying at 19 and 20 years old–that happens.)
But this is what I loved, guys. Even as I typed away at work, as you woke up and poured cereal and forgot to put bowls in the dishwasher, my insides felt like I was bubbling over with liquid gratitude.
So my husband is a classic introvert, which may (rightly) make you wonder what it’s like being married to a person like yours truly.
He’s also a friendly introvert. His entire occupation is dedicated to taking care of people, and sometimes his entire day is full of meetings. With, y’know, people who talk.
That is to say, sometimes he arrives home with The Look on his face.
So I wrote you recently how a podcast had opened my eyes to all those Hollywood writers (whose techniques, as a writer, I thought I was studying, but who suck me in just the same).
If there’s any possible time when my husband doesn’t respond to me like a guy in the movies, I’m pretty sure it’s me, and my subpar level of attractiveness.
Like most American women, I am a total sucker for rom-coms and TV drama with a smattering of romance. Who doesn’t love someone being swept off their feet, and laughing at all the stupid ways it goes wrong? Even after 18 years of marriage, I still love…love. Plus, there’s this (usually false?) idea that you’re getting a glimpse of the private stuff we never talk about.
As a writer and real person, I like to think myself immune from the illusions of a perfect husband. When a guy delivers an ingenious, sentimental line, I sometimes imagine the scriptwriter scrawling on a legal pad, grinning because she got it just right. (And if he’s saying something just right from a woman’s perspective, there’s a decent chance the scriptwriter was female.)
But a podcast recently pointed out something else to me. In Hollywood, couples–even married ones–don’t usually have a ton of needed lead time to…well. To get it on (fade to black).
I first took the enneagram about a year ago when my family mentioned it. (Yes, my whole family talks about this kind of stuff. If you’re into a sports team or politics, we might not be able to help you out).
With a husband who’s a Human Resources exec, you can bet I’ve taken my share of personality tests. (I’ve even tried to outwit some of them?)
Personally, the enneagram has brought me more self-knowledge–knowledge that actually helped me truly change–than any of the others. I even keep basic profiles on my Kindle. (Yeah. I’m one of those.) With 207 subtypes, I’ve found it to be fairly accurate for me, which hasn’t always been the case with other profiles.
Who did you think you’d marry?
My husband–I unearthed this a few years into our marriage, when we finally had the fortitude to be more vulnerable with each other–thought he’d marry someone more athletic. (I am laughing out loud as I type. Poor guy.) To his credit, when he met me, I was running every morning, performing pushups and situps at night. We played intermural sports and pickup games of soccer together. We hiked together. And to my own credit, I still live an active lifestyle. But none of these has approved the actual coordination factor.
(My parents laugh about me as a child falling repeatedly into the same hole in the yard on my way over to the bus each morning. I do not share these memories. And one has to ask, if it were true: Why did no one ever fill in said hole?)
Those of you who are married: Remember that moment where you piled all those fluffy white layers into the car with tin cans clanking on the back? Or maybe you loosened your tie and pressed on the gas with those rented shoes, rose petals or rice or birdseed flying off the back.
There was something about finally closing the door, muting the noise, and looking at each other: Finally. After all of that craziness, we are married.
It was a little weird. Like, is that it? Stood up at the church, shook a bunch of hands at the reception, and now…my identity is different?
I’ve written before that I won’t get very political on this blog, and this particular post is no exception. Yet I was reminded (in the wise article, “How Do Christians Fit Into the Two-Party System? They Don’t”) that “Those who avoid all political discussions and engagement are essentially casting a vote for the social status quo.”
Which is why this mother of two teen boys and a preteen girl, without stating any opinion on the turmoil of the U.S.’ Kavanaugh proceedings, wants to ponder aloud one particular sentiment.
“Boys will be boys” is a bunch of hooey.
Am I the only one who admits to slyly checking NBC.com to know when This is Us would restart after the summer? I keep waiting for an episode that won’t bring tears to my eyes, dagnabbit. Completely, 100% sucked in.
I’m a Christian. Not all of any show’s values will align with mine. All of life doesn’t align with my values. So there’s that. But honestly, I’m not easily hooked by TV shows. As a writer, I’m always analyzing: What’s the animal magnetism of this show? What’s timeless here? Why can’t we swivel our heads away from the Pearson family? Why do we love this messy (though typically non-crass) brood that could be any one of us?
Could it be there’s more here than some modern soap opera? What if there’s something of what we’re all gunning for?
Well. I’d been waiting for a good illustration for this post. I didn’t really want it to come when I was sleeping (probably snoring?) last week at precisely 12:35 AM. That is when my husband, arriving home late, confirmed I was good to go on that meeting tomorrow at 8 AM, the one an hour away.
Yes. (I was mumbling. If I wake up too much, I know I won’t get back to sleep.) I have to drop off all the kids, and then..
Wait. Did you say 8? Wasn’t it 8:30?
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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