Things My Wife Says

I love my wife.  Yeah, she's hot.  I'm overly -- some would say unnaturally -- attracted to her.  But I genuinely like her and enjoy her company.  I wouldn't care if she was voted the most physically attractive woman by all humanity, I'd still appreciate her at least as much for her personality and intelligence as for her beauty.

What makes Karen fun is her joy for life, her insatiable curiosity and her constant needling of me.  Sure, sometimes the last item gets on my nerves, such as when she's telling me to watch what I eat (don't I always...?).  More often than not, however, what she says just tickles my soul.

For starters, since she came from a different (and much better) state than Illinois, she has certain verbal mannerisms that are unique.  For example, she'll say The dog needs fed rather than The dog needs to be fed.  She's prone to using terms for things that I've never heard before, which makes communication new and exciting at times. 

When I get tickled at her, Karen thinks I'm laughing at her.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  I find her regional dialectic to be refreshing.  I like words, language.  That my wife speaks differently than I do is the same as the fact that she does other things differently than I do.  That doesn't mean she's set for ridicule.  It just means I find it enjoyable that she's different.  To be the same as me would be boring.

Picking a place to eat is nightmarish.  Karen has specific dietary needs, so where we can eat can be a challenge.  I'm a goat; I can eat just about anything, anywhere.  She, on the other hand, has to be careful about where we eat.  So when we go out to eat, the choice of where we eat is an issue, because it makes perfect sense to me that she should choose from the three or four places where she can eat.  Being the stubborn Scot that she is, she tells me that I should choose.  Having been down this road more than a time or two, the discussion usually follows this routine:

Me:  All right, let's eat at Applebee's.

Karen:  But they don't have anything I like there.

Me:  How about Qdoba?

Karen:  But we just ate there two nights ago.

Me:  What about Panera?

Karen:  I can't eat there.

Me:  What about Arby's?

Karen:  No. 

Me:  Fine, then you pick it.

Karen:  But I want you to choose.

Yet where Karen really shines is when she comments about me.  Karen doesn't mince words.  She won't go into attack mode unless it's about politics and she's provoked.  Since we're pretty similar in our political beliefs, that's not really an issue for us.  No, her comments about me are just pure honesty...with a heavy patina of hilarity.

Once, Karen took a look at my high school picture when I told her she'd never have dated me then.  She took one look at my picture and declared without missing a beat that only because of my unfortunate eyewear would I have been disqualified.  Doesn't my personality, my wit and my charm have any way of overriding that?, I asked.  Nope, that eyewear was hideous, she averred.

Fortunately for me time travel is not yet possible and she's stuck with me and my upgraded eyewear now.

Recently we revisited my woeful high school years and the hypothetical that we might have dated had we been in the same school.  I would have taken you on, she said casually, as if she were considering hiring an apprentice bricklayer for a summer job.  You would have taken me on? I asked her with mock hurt.  Yeah, I would have taken you on, she replied, unconcerned about the employment overtones of the comment.  I just guffawed at her comment.

But even that compares to her most recent comment.  In a rush to get out the door for some errands, I grabbed a T-shirt out of the closet that was some shade of green and put it on, hoping that it would match the green-plaid cargo shorts I had on already. 

(Note:  My wardrobe choices are a constant source of consternation for us.  Apparently, even at fifty-five years of age, I dress like a child, according to my wife.  Although I'll readily admit that I can barely spell fashion, much less adhere to it, I'm not nearly as bad as she thinks and not nearly as good as I think.  I'm somewhere in between, although, again, Karen would declare that I'm somewhere between horrible and hideous when left to my own fashion devices.  We've squabbled so much on this point I ask her to just lay out my clothes for me so we can get the dressing part over with and get on our way.  Karen, in turn, tells me I'm a grown adult and that I should pick out my own clothes, which I then do, only to provoke more fashion outrage from her, and the cycle continues.)

So as we drive away Karen tugs my shirt over my pants leg and says, quite naturally, Wow, this shirt matches your shorts.  How'd that happen?

And there, people, is a perfect illustration of faint praise.

I just broke down laughing.  Karen was surprised at my outburst, seeing nothing hilarious about her comment but everything surprising about the outcome of my clothing choice.  I laughed for a good five minutes about her query.  Based on our history of quibbling about my clothing choices, her question was a good one.  But the delivery sealed the deal.  I'm still chuckling about her surprised question about my wardrobe choice that day.

So the things my wife says are amusing and funny and enjoyable.  They are what makes like livable.  She's not always right about everything -- although she'd disagree with that -- but it's not about being right.  It's about the humor, the fun, the wit. 

The funniest part about it, though, is she was right about that T-shirt.

I have no idea how that happened.

(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles