The Mechanics of Someone Else's Day
My husband can fix anything. It's as if he has laser vision that can see through metal casings, into gear shafts. Even with hands that make my back feel small, he can thread needles, extract splinters, repair what is broken. He communicates with animals in a language I don't understand. Birds land on his head, butterflies dive bomb his chest. Any house we visit, the cat sits on his lap. I swear to God, he can communicate with fish. He knows a million facts of varying degrees of useful less/ness. I consult him before Wikipedia. He spent his teen years reading Cosmo to learn how to please a woman. He can make a gourmet dinner out of condiments and spare parts. If I was in a war, I'd give him the gun. If I was captain of a football team, I'd make him the quarterback, if I knew enough about football to use the word quarterback. If I was being chased by goblins across a steep ravine in the middle of the night, I'd call him before 911. He builds and plays and does stuff with our son that would make me lose my mind. Why then, do I spend entire days wanting to stab his eyes out? Why do I burn with rage when he devotes his spare time to video games, the internet, motorcycles, fishing boats and trash TV? Because, anytime I laser focus on the mechanics of someone else's day the problem lies within mine. Anytime I want him to do or achieve or produce something it's because there's something I need to do or achieve or produce. My husband probably wonders what the hell is wrong with me and as I write this, so do I.