After 14 years of marriage, my husband and I have both mellowed and have much more in common than we did in our early years.

After all, you take two independent adults in their 30’s and mix them together, it’s not going to be all butterflies and roses.  Nor would we want it to be; that would mean that we weren’t always being ourselves.

But there are still some ways we are very different.

For instance, my husband is quiet. I am anything but.

I am an optimist; he calls himself a realist.

I remain convinced that ‘realists’ are pessismists in sheep’s clothing, but that’s another post for another day.

He doesn’t make a habit of chatting up strangers. I could carry on a conversation with a fence post.

He thrives on routine: happiness to him is eating a ham sandwich for lunch 56 days in a row. I believe change is ‘fresh’.

“Why did you have to change the shower soap? I was fine with what we had! Why do you always have to go changing everything?” 😉

So it stands to reason when I came zooming into his life, he was in for some major change.

Jimmy is one of those guys who prefers to fly under the radar and not be noticed. Unfortunately, he’s with me.

I’ll explain.

I learned a long time ago that God had a sense of humor. When I was younger (e.g. less sure of myself), I tried to be polished. Perfect. Sophisticated.

It’s hard to feel sophisticated when you rip the back of your dress getting into a sports car.

And so, being very familiar – and now comfortable – with Murphy’s law, I have some particular quirks that I’ve simply learned to live with.

For my husband, however, it’s an ongoing process.

I am incredibly clumsy. 

It seems to go in cycles, with no rhyme nor reason.

I fall down or bump into things with astonishing regularity. I’ve been this way for years.

I’ve fallen off curbs, in parking lots, on sidewalks and down stairs. I’ve bumped into a million different objects. When I was 12, I bumped my head on a brace on the side of a grain bin and bled like a stuck pig. The end result of this was two black eyes. For WEEKS.

Several years ago, I sustained a minor head injury and had to be transported by ambulance to the ER. En route, I complained to the paramedic that there was a dance that weekend at the Moose, and now I would have black eyes.

“Oh, that’s not necessarily the case with a head injury,” he said.

“You don’t know ME!” I wailed.

Well, sometimes when life hands you lemons, you have to make lemon drop martini’s.

So I bought a pair of cool sunglasses and pretended to be a Rock Star.

Several years ago I was leaving work one Saturday afternoon when I slipped and fell down in the parking lot. As I drove home, I could feel the all-too-familiar tickle of blood running down my knee.

I immediately called a friend of mine. Not because I was injured, mind you. I wanted her to share my grief in scuffing my new shoes, and my amusement at the irony of falling in the handicapped parking space.

Naturally, my friend’s husband wondered why she was laughing uncontrollably and wiping her eyes.

“Are you sure she shouldn’t see a neurologist or something?” he asked, concerned over what had been a recent rash of falls.

“No, she’s just clumsy,” she reassured him.

So therefore, it stands to reason that nothing strikes fear in the heart of my husband than opportunities for me to fall.

Such as the walk we took on the top of Ft. Jefferson in Dry Tortugas National Park this winter. Three stories above the ocean with no fence or guardrails, just a bumpy sandy, grassy surface about 15 feet wide was all that separated me from a nice, open air plunge.

Poor guy was worn out after that little hike, pointing out obstacles, ushering me past uneven spots, and steering me away if I got too close to the edge.

Thanks, dear!

I’m a very messy eater.

There’s a very strategic reason why you nearly always see me wearing black if we’re out to dinner. It’s because if I spill something, you’re less likely to notice!

You probably know about the White Shirt Law: that’s the unwritten law that says you MUST wear a white shirt if you’re going to eat Mexican, Italian or BBQ. It’s just the way of the world.

Do you suppose my love of pristine white shirts is related at all to the fact that I can rarely keep them clean? Hmmmmmm.

This is a new, sparkling white sweatshirt I purchased just especially for Truman State’s Homecoming parade last fall.

What a fun day that was!

It was early, it was cold, and it was a blast!

After the parade, Jimmy and I went to the Wooden Nickel for lunch. My favorite lunch dish?

BBQ Beef brisket, of course.

I made it through nearly the whole meal, completely unscathed.

Until the very.last.piece.

I tried to cut it with my fork. It didn’t wish to cooperate.

Zing! It shot out from under my fork to another area of the plate.

In the process, it literally showered me with sauce droplets.

Jimmy’s expression was somewhere between shock, amazement, amusement, and horror.

“How DO you manage to do that?” he asked. “Every.single.time?”

The look on his face was priceless. It sustained me for weeks.

After 3 days of soaking and about 4 wash cycles, my sweatshirt is as good as new and ready for the second go around.

Needless to say, I go through a lot of tee shirts in a year’s time. After a while, they just look sort of…tired. 😀

I could keep going, but there’s a beautiful day out there to be enjoyed and I’m about to go do it. Make it a beautiful day, friends!