Friday, March 10, 2006

Crazy Love

We had, um, a discussion last night.

Well, I discussed. He listened. Listening, for my husband, can also be described as staring at me and wondering exactly how many drinks he'd had the night he proposed, however I choose to focus on the positive.

Our discussion revolved around my increasing concern over the houses my husband would be content to live in, vs. the houses I would be content to live in. For example, it appears that my husband is very comfortable with fake wood paneling, 1980's linoleum, and questionable stains. He believes, quite rightly, that these things can be changed. The problem is that after we purchase said house, they will not be changed by us, because whereever we go we'll be in the same new neighborhood: Broke-ass Mountain.

So we talked. And it got rather heated. And, as is my custom, I parlayed our discussion into thoughts about life and the universe as a whole, and our role in it, and whether or not I'd gone too many months without therapy. Etc. And then dramatically flounced off to bed.

This morning, I heard him stir.

"Honey? I'm sorry I'm crazy," I said.

"Oh, love," he started. I expected him to say, "You aren't crazy." Instead he said, "I guess I'm crazy, too."

I mulled over the fact that nowhere in that response was an indication that he did not in fact believe me to be crazy. I spent the morning questioning the decision to navigate through life without the aid of pharmaceuticals.

And then he called me at work and said, "I just felt the need to tell you that I love you."

He's married to me, trauma queen, and still feels the need to issue mushy messages at the slightest provocation.

Yep. He's completely, indisputably, mad. :)

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