The phone rings and I turn over and look at caller ID. It’s Hubby. My first thought is “Oh no, his mother died.” That’s what phone calls are to me these days: Horrible news that I find I’m never fully prepared for.
“I have some incredibly, amazingly, wonderful fantastic news,” he says.
“Oh? What is your incredibly, amazingly, wonderful fantastic news, Dear?”
“I figured out my golf swing…. finally!”
“Isn’t this, like, the billionth time you’ve told me this?” The tone and volume of my voice rise. How much golf talk torture can a human being take in a lifetime before they go completely bat-shit crazy, I regularly wonder?
“No wait, but this is different! I’ve figured out that it’s all in the hips!”
“You’ve told me THAT a billion times too!” My Watcher mind whispers “calm… calm”. I try to be calm, though my hand quivers, dying to slam my finger on the disconnect icon.
“This is different!” He repeats. “I hit the ball across the road every single time! I’ve finally GOT it!”
“Congrats. Now can I go back to sleep?”
“See you later tonight. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Sigh. This is what it’s like to be married to someone for 21 years.
You get some incredibly, amazingly, wonderfully fantastic news. What’s the first thing you do?