Bragging Rights

Today I inked in this cartoon, which I sketched almost fifteen years ago. It has a title and another story behind it, but it seemed a perfect fit for this story from A Beautiful Hell.

Oh, this a drawing of Cute Redhead (and she said I could post it.)

About a hundred years ago I stood up in front of God and everybody, looked my beautiful bride-to-be right in the eye and said some of the dumbest things any person ever says:

“I’ll Always…”, “I’ll Forever…”, “I’ll Never…”

In other words, “I do.”

These are insane words.  They’re insane because when you utter them they take a grand total of thirty seconds to say.  And then they take thirty years to prove.  More, they’re insane because they’re (if your conscious enough to be honest) impossible to live up to.

But until you get a certain number of years under your belt, you don’t know this.  And that’s not really as bad as it might sound because You’re Not Supposed To Know This.  Because if you knew this, you would not say I Do.  Ever.

And if you sit there and tell me “Oh yes I would!” I’ll sit here and tell you that you Have No Flipping Idea What You’re Saying and Are Clearly Not Married.

It took God (brilliantly disguised as Life) clocking me in the head before it dawned on me that I really didn’t make the vow to her.  I made the vow to Him, to risk the hyperspiritual.  But I didn’t know I didn’t know and, looking back, I realize none of us really know.  I was am in love just enough to tip the scale and promise that No Matter What Comes (or not), I’m staying in.

I read a brilliant fact about marriage:  “Eventually, you realize that the wild roller coaster of romantic love has leveled out to the long boring Midwestern interstate.  With the occasional overpass.  If you’re lucky.”  These are very wise words.  Also very true.  Also very good.

[Official Disclaimer:  I wouldn’t trade this for anything.  That is, unless anything was five minutes of peace and quiet where I wasn’t being pecked to death by ducks.  So don’t misunderstand me: I’m not griping.]

One day I was standing in the kitchen thinking Mindless Husband Thoughts when this actual conversation took place and I promise I am not making this up:

Wife:  “…are you going to the store today?”

Me:  “Huh?  Oh.  No, I had no plans to, but I can.  You need something?”

Wife:  “I do.  I need Advil.  We’re out of Advil.”

Me:  (writes down “Advil”)  “Got it!  Advil!  I will be right back with Ad—!”

Wife:  “And New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream.”

Me:  “—vil!  Huh?”  (adds New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream to list)  “Um.  Okay.  Advil.  Ice cream.  Got it.  Be right ba–”

Wife:  “And a bottle of wine.”

(Wires in brain start to carry Very Alarming signals to Limbic Male Cerebral Cortex)

Me:  “A…bottle of wi—. Wait. You want Advil, ice cream, and a bottle of wine??”

Wife:  “Yes.  And um.  One more thing.”

(husband stares)

(wife stares)

(husband finally Gets It)

Me:  “…You wouldn’t.”

Wife:  “I need them.”

Me:  “Honey….I’m begging you.”

Wife:  “Do you want to live to—”

Me:  “Sigh.  I know, I know…do you want to live to see your grandchildren.”

Wife:  “I was going to say ‘to see tomorrow’ but we’ll go with that.  Besides, at least you can say you have a wife that you get to buy them for.”

Okay at this point my brain EXPLODES and I’m on the floor (I’m not kidding, my legs buckled and I hit the floor) laughing so hard I’m going to wet myself because in all my memories of running around the yard as a little boy with the towel tied around my neck because that was The Cape and I’m fighting bad guys and Darth Vader and hi-yaa! *karate kick!* Take That!! I never once stopped and said, “…you know what guys?  Seriously.  Can we have a moment?  Just think…some day…we get to trade all this for a chance to buy tampons.”

And so I go to the store for the Nuclear Fallout Survival Kit. And on the way I’m mumbling to myself all kinds of thoughts and questions like “how in the WORLD do you not have enou—I mean it’s NOT like we don’t know this is coming and if you had one speck of decency you would not ask ME to buy YOU anything remotely like THOSE and FORGODSAKESTOCKUP!”

And I am so far beyond filling up two shopping carts full of groceries just to hide what I’m actually there for.  So, I go straight to the aisle and in front of God and everybody I get six or seven boxes.  Or fourteen.  I’m talking every conceivable version, size, winged, triple-dinosaur pack, finished basement, nanny, cable TV, fragrance, style, color, fireproof, this-one-promises something like a Gentle Glide (my ass, you numbskull, we are about to go through Katrina), and I go straight to the checkout like I’m carrying stacked boxes of enough court records to send Al Capone up the river all over again.

And in the checkout aisle—oh.  I forgot to mention. It was Valentine’s Day.

V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E-S D-A-Y.

Valentine’s Day.  This alone should get me something gold-plated.

So, I’m in the checkout lane and in front of me is a guy with:  roses, card, balloons. Behind me is another guy with:  big giant teddy bear, roses, card.

I’m between them. It’s Valentine’s Day.

I have in my arms enough absorbency to dry up Lake Michigan. I THROW them onto the conveyor belt unapologetically and stand there with hooded eyes and a look that says “Bring it.  I’ve just given you the best set up known to man.”

And check-out lady takes one look at me, takes one look at the nineteen-year supply of I AM NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN and says, “….okay, that is love.”

And you know what?

She’s right.