Marriage is like riding a unicycle, doing a handstand or twirling a baton. It looks easy until you try it. And like anything, you have to be flexible, willing to learn and somewhat clever. It’s a lot.

Soon, Gar and I will have been married for 45 years. I started to write that we’d “celebrate” 45 years, but that’s a little too strong of language so early in the game. I know folks who’ve topped over 70 years so I’m not screaming, “Triple doodle doo” yet. Give us another 20 and then maybe we’ll feel we’re over the hump. Really, we’re in the third quarter and just like football, we can’t get complacent at this stage. And shouldn’t we, at this point, know which one is head coach? We should. Poor Gar, it’s not been easy.  

Most newlyweds think by now it would be smooth sailing, but no matter how long you’re hitched, the quirks that make us “us” continue to be annoyingly present, and to up the game, we generally not only keep our quirkiness but as we age, add to it.

I rarely write of Gar’s vexing deeds, so without telling all his dirty little secrets, I’ll mention a couple, and sadly, they’re genetic. Gar wipes his hands on the clean dishtowel hanging in the kitchen. Then, more often than not, he promptly wipes his face WITH THE SAME TOWEL. Lord help. Unbelievably, on a recent trip to see our kids, I witnessed a grandchild do the very same thing as her Gramps, even though he wasn’t with us in the kitchen. It wasn’t learned behavior. It was hereditary. Oh my gosh.  

I’ve also watched Gar, instead of using a paper towel, wipe his fingers on the bottom of his pants. I felt surely, surely, surely, he was the only person on earth to do this, but no, on a recent visit from our daughter, we were sitting around the campfire chatting, when upon finishing her meal, she, right there in front of God, absentmindedly wiped her cupcake-crumb-covered fingers on the bottom of her pants. When I handed her a damp cloth, she shook her head, saying, “I’m good.”

When I mentioned that pants wiping wasn’t acceptable, she chuckled, “Oh, well, sometimes I use my sock.”

I was immediately mentally transported to a recent airport scenario where Gar and I were sitting at our gate waiting to board. I had filled my water bottle, bought Gar a tea, and as I sat down mentioned I wished we had some chocolate. Gar went to the restroom and came back toting a Hershey bar. It was soft, getting our hands somewhat sticky, so I pulled a Kleenex from my pocket, wiped my fingers, offered it to Gar, and said, “It’s used but you’re welcome to it.”
He looked at it then at me, shrugged, and nonchalantly announced, “I have my sock, thanks.” These are educated people who regularly, while at the dinner table, use a cloth napkin like they quite possibly were not raised in a cave.  

This would be a very good time to mention, “Do not marry the first available person.” Be picky, be vigilant, and mostly, for the love of all things lasting 45 years, either own or obtain, a sense of humor.  

A couple of years ago, while wintering in Florida, we were in an RV park about a half mile from a shooting range, semi-hidden in the trees. We’d noticed it but had heard nothing. One day, after a few weeks of being cooped up in an 8” by 32” camper, I realized Gar might be tired of my shenanigans. We were sitting at a picnic table by the laundry area waiting for our wash when suddenly we heard a gunshot. Gar and I raised our eyebrows at each other, and I said, “He’d had about enough of her macaroni and cheese dinners.”

There’s a lot of joy in marriage. Gar is my best friend; he endures me, and we laugh a lot. I hate cooking so do it in the quickest way possible. Gar rarely cooks but recently made tacos. I said, “These are delicious.”
Gar said, “They are, it’s the way the lettuce was sliced WITH the grain.”
I countered, “I thought it was the teeny, tiny, diced tomatoes.”

He said, “Well, ya, that’s quite a contrast from the half a tomato and head of lettuce ‘somebody’ usually throws in, but mostly it’s how the tomatoes get sliced ACROSS the grain.”