On a TV show we were watching, someone asked others to tell one story about themselves that would provide insight into who they are as a person. So I asked my husband what his story would be.
There was dead silence and since I am unable to see his facial features unless we are very close, I told him that I couldn’t see his face but I was guessing there was a vacant look in his eyes. In his defense, the poor guy was just trying to watch a reality competition program. He didn’t realize he’d be asked to participate.
Finally, after I said nothing more but stared him down, at least I think I was looking at his face but I could have been locked on his left shoulder, he said “normal?” Yes, there was a question mark after that one lone word.
I pointed out that that was a word and not a story and then I realized and said, “That’s your story.” My husband is a man of moderate words (opposites attract, Raindrops), a good man who loves me enough to indulge me in such ridiculous questions I sometimes ask when I forget I am not with one of my girlfriends but with a kind-hearted guy just trying to relax and enjoy some silly entertainment.
I write stories about my life at least five times a week and as in this post, sometimes I tell his anecdotes for him. I always ask his permission first, even though he has given me carte blanche. After twenty-six years together, his stories are mine, and my stories are his. And we’re sticking to them.
