I was sending The Hubster a return text tonight, telling him to have a good evening at work. As I was ending the text with our standard, "I love you", I inadvertently typed "live", rather than love. I corrected it and sent it on it's merry way; yet, hours later, I find myself thinking about it still.
You see, I do "live" him. What else would you call it? Our individual lives are melded into one. I oftentimes pick up after him, much like one of our children. I care for him when he's sick. I listen to him when he needs to vent over a current frustration. I prepare his meals, clean his dirty laundry, and make sure he wakes up with his alarm. Raise and care for his children. I trip over his shoes on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and grumble about the washing machine full of loose change that I always find when he tries to help me by doing some of his own laundry.
Along the same lines, when something is upsetting me, he is the one I turn to. I always know that he will be even more upset than me; my very own Champion of Justice. He tolerates my incessant desire to decorate our home - even jumping right in up to his armpits and helping when I'm sure he'd much rather be golfing. He takes the time to go grocery shopping with me, telling me that it's not fair for me to have to do it by myself and that there's nowhere else he'd rather be. When I'm having a girly, "fat", day he pulls me in his arms, kisses my head, and tells me that he thinks I'm beautiful. Even when I'm wearing his baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt three sizes too large. He tries, in his own manly way, to care for me when I don't feel well...and takes it on the chin when I whine because the cheeseburger he brought me is not my idea of a cure for the flu.
You see, way back when...almost two decades ago...we were "in love". I still love him, but it's transcended now. Now I'm in LIFE with him...and from where I stand it just doesn't get much better.
1 comment:
Live! Lovely.
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