I’ve been married 8 years tomorrow. I waited a long time to marry in many estimations. I had lived a lot of years alone and was quite set in my ways. I knew that life would change significantly when I made the decision to pledge myself to another person. I knew that my habits and traditions would need to merge with my husband’s habits and traditions and that we would need to find a way to navigate those waters. I knew there were a lot of things that would be different and challenging.
I had many conversations with my married friends about how their spouse’s idiosyncrasies had seemed cute and endearing during courtship, but had changed to annoyances and sources of contention. I was prepared to be annoyed. I was confident that our love could withstand any such annoyance. I was determined that the trivial would not overshadow the significant. In short I believed that our marriage would be different than my friends’ marriages – we were just better suited, more in sync, more meant to be, more cerebral, just more.
And if I’m honest, in a lot of ways we just don’t let small things get to us. We really don’t fight much – in fact, I can probably count on one hand the number of times we’ve actually had a real “fight”. We respect each other and for the most part can navigate through petty annoyances and differences of opinion without much incident.
However, there is one thing that no one warned me of when I was about to say I do to this man. No one cautioned me regarding this one thing, habit, compulsion, even addiction and the unending angst it would inflicted upon me. No one told me that this thing could immediately turn my feelings of love and adoration for this man, my mate, into loathing and violence. There was no warning that this one activity would cause me to throw things, yell, stomp my feet, etc.
This is the infraction which causes me angst. Every morning, without fail, my husband leaves his spoon on the lip of the sink. Every single, cotton picking morning, I walk into my kitchen to find this coffee, creamer and sugar laced spoon stuck to its lower left corner.
This spoon and its sticky attachments cause me no end of revulsion. Most mornings the bowl which was used in conjunction with this utensil sits within the well of the sink, ready and willing to hold the discarded spoon. But no, each day this spoon attaches itself to the chrome with such force that warm water and a rag are often required for its removal.
I have asked, pleaded and commanded that this practice cease, but each morning these requests are ignored and the spoon takes up its residence once again on the lip of the sink.
Had I known, had some caring and concerned soul told me that this would be my lot in life – then my friends, I may have felt prepared for the psychological pain this action has inflicted. But NO, not one person told me the horrors to which I would be exposed. Because had they told me, had anyone seen fit to prepare me, then dear readers, I might have considered this a deal breaker – at the very least an item to be discussed at great length in pre-marital counseling.
But, alas, no one warned me. And now, 8 years later, I must fight this battle daily. I must endure this hardship of compromise with every morning’s cup of coffee.
I often think of what life will be like in our future – what our golden years will look like – how will we spend our days as we grow old and grey and the frenzy of life slows down in the sunset of our lives. I draw a mental picture of what those years will look like – if God willing, we are granted those years. Each time I try to imagine it, the same scene emerges in my mind’s eye.
My beloved and I, sitting in the early morning light at our kitchen table – each of us reading; I rise and shuffle to the kitchen to pour our cups of coffee – black for me, cream and sugar for him – and without thought or hesitation, I lay the spoon on the lip of our sink. And a tear forms in my eye and a grin on my mouth as I breathe up a prayer of thanks that I was blessed with a man whose worst offense in our long lives together was the spoon and its place on my sink.
Happy Anniversary, Terry. I love you!