Dull girl no more when life sends husband home

On Dec. 21, I had stood outside looking up to watch for the plane to appear in the night sky.
First a star-sized light, and on into a bigger and brighter one that signalled a long wait over as love landed safely in this neck of the woods.
I thought of poet James Wright and his description of anticipation: “Suddenly I realize that if I stepped out of my body, I would break into blossom.”
Seeing Pete get off the plane was as glorious as I had dreamed, and being consumed in his arms out there on the airport tarmac was like a scene from a movie.
I thought of American writer Dave Barry, who said, “Magnetism is one of the six fundamental forces of the Universe, with the other five being gravity, duct tape, whining, remote control, and the force that pulls dogs toward the groins of strangers.”
Magnetism is that man I haven’t seen in 291 days.
It was all I could do to share him with my surroundings and even for a wordsmith like me, I cannot describe how right all things were with the world in that moment.
And then the adjustment reaction period set in—and I was reminded of what I’ve been like for the last nine months and 12 days.
I plan, I read the instructions, I play it safe, I like to spend time alone, and I almost always know where everything is around here.
I think first (sometimes for days) and then act, focus on one thing at a time, trust my gut, and think about future implications.
I am convinced by rational arguments, prefer to finish projects, and find comfort in schedules.
And as I’ve said before, I suppose that’s why the Universe teamed me up with Pete, who has the fearless, adventure-driven, all-over-the-place essence of “Yukon Cornelius” from the movie classic, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
So, when all work and no play makes Beth a dull girl, life sends her husband home to muss up her hair, make absurd spontaneous decisions that involve money, stir the pot by using my tools and then not return them to their original location, and make our neck of the woods an unpredictable land mine series of events.
Sure, we have oodles in common—the least of which include the fact that we share the same inseam measurement, enjoy tea and chocolate, and dig “Alien” movies. We love pigging out on chips and doughnuts, though not at the same time, and we are technology hounds.
However, we continue to make a remarkable and magnificent case for the law of attraction between persistent opposites.
As I write this, some three weeks into a month-long honeymoon, I look out into the hallway from my writing place at the entrails of three days’ worth of “man clothing” strewn about just inside the doorway to the bedroom.
Enough pocket change to buy coffee for six of my closest friends has spilled out of Peter’s jeans by his side of the bed, and is ripe for pick-up by the laundry woman who recently surfaced after a hiatus of more than half-a-year.
The kitchen table, which until a short time ago looked like a “photo op” for “House and Home” magazine, is one-quarter covered with all the small stuff that was at the bottom of Peter’s suitcase—dumped there in an effort to find one thing when he arrived home.
Once again, the cheese has a dark, dry edge on it from being left uncovered in the fridge, which has been repeatedly raided at 3 a.m. by the guy still recovering from jet lag and leaving the grocery clerk with another 10 items to add to her list.
Dirty dishes in the kitchen sink have tripled in size, and nearly all my shaving cream has been used up on man whiskers that once again can be found sprinkled in the small space behind the bathroom sink taps after his razor session.
And lately when I wake up in the morning, all the blankets I have so generously enjoyed all to myself are missing off my wintery cold skeleton and have gravitated to the other side of the bed, where a certain someone lies rolled up in them—snoring like a cohort’s ancient snowblower from 1971.
Speaking of which, I haven’t been able to get near our new John Deere snowblower since Pete got home as he is always outside creating labyrinths around the farmyard with it.
All manner of guitar instruction booklets, picks, microphones, cords, stands, and gargantuan amplifier systems have appeared in the middle of our tiny living room, amassed there for his late-night, early-morning, and afternoon jamming sessions.
Plans abound in this spontaneous construction technician that I am married to, who would love to build a house addition, and raise the roof and the house all at the same time—and all before the end of January.
This house, my life, and my heart all are very full.
And today, even if just for this moment, everything—even the mess on his side of the bed—is right in the world.

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