When my husband eats chips, you likely can hear it in the outback of Australia. We live in Nebraska. And I have that fun condition called misophonia. The sound of chip-chewing is my worst enemy.
There are people in this world who are grammar nuts. It’s their “thing.” They have an uncanny ability to track down a misplaced preposition. They seem to understand the difference between “who” and “whom” with a shocking level of contextual clarity.
I am thankful for these people. I am not one of them.
But I do like words. Words pour out of me easily, whether on the page or in conversation. My husband is a man of much fewer words. I’m almost certain that he keeps his thoughts inside a little treasure box inside his mind. When you get to peek into the box, that’s something really special.
My husband and I have been married for 19.5 years. That .5 is worth noting, based on the shape of our last year.
The truth is, while the lyrics are terrible, Pat Benatar got pretty close—love (in marriage) is a battlefield.
Sometimes I’m not a nice person.
Sometimes I just need to say those words out loud and admit them.
