My husband, bless him, is a regular guy. But he does come out with the damnedest things sometimes.
"What?" asked I, naively. Right away I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.
"I'm going to live forever," he repeated, "at least until I find the perfect woman."
Now, I think we have a darned good marriage, as marriages go. But, perfect woman? Or perfect man, for that matter? Rubbish. What in the world is he thinking?
I went on with my daily things. I forget now what they were. Something fascinating, like laundry, dishes, groceries. You know. What made me the ideal spouse before he decided he needed a "perfect woman?"
Maybe he means he wants to be young again and he wants a younger woman beside him. There's just one problem with that age-old desire. What would she want with an old coot? He's cute, I'll grant you. But he is getting a bit paunchy at this age.
It keeps coming up, however, this search for the perfect woman. And what would he do if he found one? He has me, imperfect but devoted wife, at least in heart.
He points out to me all the lovely young things passing by. "She cooks, I'll bet," says he.
I laugh. I don't cook. I can cook. I just don't like to. We eat out most of the time. We meet people -- like one couple we play bridge with. They were in the same restaurant at the next table. My husband swaps stories and jokes with waiters. Clearly, eating out provides great social opportunities we cannot afford to miss.
So much for women who cook. That is not the issue.
He says he doesn't care for women who eat or drink too much, smoke, talk too much, back seat drive, gripe about his clothes or his favorite foods, who don't like sports or movies like King Kong or Alien. Worst are the ones who are in love with themselves, or who swear like truck drivers.
Whew. We have a lot of respect for each other so the above list does not contain things he is likely to accuse me of.
Well, come to think of it, I do correct his driving habits, complain when I pick up his smelly socks and turn up my nose at some of his lunch concoctions. I hate scary movies and spectator sports. He can watch the game if he wants, but I don't want to sit through it with him. But where movies are concerned, we agree 99% of the time.
He's a morning person and I'm a night person. He is full of energy, much of it delightfully creative, while I am more thoughtful. Don't misunderstand. We are both cheerful. But then, he clutters. I organize. He saves things forever while I toss out anything I can rip out of his claws. I mean, he has cowboy music he copied from 78s, 45s and 33s onto tape. Tape? Music with titles like, Thank God and Greyhound She's Gone whereas I have The Moody Blues and Vivaldi. Clearly, my taste is toward the more classic styles.
Opposites attract, they say. Still, we enjoy reading together. But then he swears that whenever he opens a book, my mouth opens right along with it. He looks at me, not saying a word at first. Then when I pause long enough to breathe, he says, "My book is open."
You can see that we tease each other and laugh a lot. It should be clear that we are an ideal couple. So what's with him?
"She's never critical," he says of another lovely creature he doesn't know at all.
I realize that what he means is that the people we fantasize about have no faults, and I laugh again. "Maybe so, but you give me so much material to work with," I tell him.
"You're so irreverent," says he. "A man deserves respect."
Wait a minute. What was it he said, exactly? "I'm going to live forever, at least until I find the perfect woman." What would he do once he found her?
"Are you just having a cranky spell or is something actually bothering you?" I ask the gentle giant at my side.
"I am not cranky, and nothing's bothering me. I'm happy."
"Good, because I'm not perfect. What you see is what you get."
He sighs dramatically, and then he laughs at me. "Gotcha!" he says.
