Editor's Note: Since this is the first week of school & all, Mrs. Scribe feels the need to alleviate the stress in her life & do a little recycling. The following is a post that originally appeared here. The Writer's Workshop prompt is What Does Marriage Mean to You? Photo courtesy of The Good Guy.
We met in college. We shared the same major. But that was where the similarities ended.
Mr. Fairway admired Dirty Harry. I had a passion for Barbra Streisand. I swam laps. He thought Speedos belonged only on effeminate young men on the beach at St.-Tropez.
The man was a golfer, for goodness sake. He wore Polos even off the golf course. The only folks I’d ever seen in Polos—especially those in shades of chartreuse and tangerine—were effeminate young men in Greenwich Village, during a college summer in NYC.
But the more I saw of him, the more we became comfortable in each other's ways. The Dirty Harry fan took me to more than one chick flick. And I even once rose before the sun did and, discarding my usual uniform of jeans and a T, donned khaki and a Polo to attend a PGA Golf Tournament.
We were there 12 hours, and I have to say that I enjoyed myself—because he was there.
He’s Norwegian, from the Upper Midwest. I’m a Southern Gal. He’s parsimonious in his prose, sometimes going hours without a single word to anyone. I can talk a blue streak, with anybody, anytime.
Debbie was right, of course. As the ’80s morphed into the ’90s, and the new century dawned, we watched the seasons of married life fly by. Two kids and years beyond college, we’re still together.
And no, this isn’t a post commemorating our anniversary. That comes up in the Spring. Today, I’m honoring a note he left on the kitchen table. A memo, of sorts, just a quick FYI, scribbled in a husband’s scrawl, which greeted me when I returned from doing laps yesterday morning.
“Hello...I’m cooking dinner tonight.”
That’s all he had to say to win my heart again. He had me. After “hello.”