On the contrary, my dear

The saying goes that “opposites attract” and I know for sure in my marriage, it rings more true than a church bell.
As I have admitted on many an occasion, I am an organized, list-making, task-driven entity. I make lists for the morning and for weekend chores I want to finish. I have a pad of paper on my desk at work just for lists of things I want to do that have nothing to do with work.
Invariably, at any given time, I have a list sitting on the front passenger seat of my vehicle.
Me and I work very well together, yet we married a carefree guy whose idea of task-driven often includes copious episodes of “Star Trek” and seeing how big a pile of discarded clothing can be amassed on his side of the bed during his two weeks home from work.
Because cloning is illegal, the explanations about why opposites attract suggest we often look for the missing part of ourselves in the other person—someone to complete us.
Come to think of it, I do remember a recent fleeting desire to be “Mrs. What-A-Mess” and accrue my own pile of clothing to step over. But, unfortunately, that was after I had followed the advice of the closet gurus and got rid of everything I hadn’t worn in the last 12 months.
Yet Pete is definitely there for search and rescue on the days when my horns are out and I am sequestered in task and toil and seemingly content, wherein he declares it his job to remind me to have fun by taking me away from all that.
He works hard at it, I buck, yet he succeeds and I am happy in the end that he does.
Further, I am a soul who prefers a private lifestyle yet married a gregarious man. And this, I know for sure, is where the attraction both fills me up and drives me to buy him a ticket to the moon—as did one recent extroverted scenario starring “Mr. Mid-life.”
It’s a well-known universal truth that there are some things you just shouldn’t say out loud. I venture to add to that truth that there also are some things a certain 40-something man born in Italy shouldn’t do to his hair.
I also might specify that even though I respect one’s personal right to express their individuality, the wife who had not seen her Italian stallion for nearly three weeks should have been given the opportunity to run her hands through the mane of her dreams before said hair experiment.
Instead, wife’s “omigod” reaction—and after driving four hours to the city to meet husband—at seeing his long, black, curly tresses converted into a myriad of small, tight braids tied with coloured elastics pre-empted any thoughts of making good on the little book of love coupons she’d put in his stocking at Christmas.
Had I utilized my superwoman powers, the sharp edge of my flat stare would have sliced off the braids, leaving him bald, while my Medusa-complex turned him to stone as I wrote that one-way ticket.
The only thing I was thankful for was that we weren’t in a public place but rather at my brother’s house, where a family friend had spent all afternoon furnishing him with the new doo.
Though my face went blue trying, no amount of womanly wiles could convince him to take the braids out while we stayed overnight in the city to celebrate his recent birthday with my brother and sister-in-law.
Reluctantly, I started breathing again and waived my female right to get my way, then immediately regretted my surrendering when I realized that although we were having an at-home party, we had to make a trip together to the liquor store for the dinner wine and beer.
I thanked my higher power for the fact that we were in a big city full of strangers, but I still wanted to ring him with a church bell.
However, my new best friend is the girl at the beer store counter who looked up at Pete and his braids while he was paying for the two-four and said, “Don’t do that again.”
The real truth be told, at the end of the day when, like a hurricane, Pete comes through my world and renews the air and reminds me of the freedom in unlimited boundaries of expression, I can’t imagine life with anyone else.
Though because opposites attract, I’d better keep up the buck.

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