It’s Like, Not Love, At 2AM

I had an epiphany last week. The clouds parted and the sun shined.. Ha,ha! No, that didn’t really happen. I’m in Florida! It’s been pouring and flooding in the Panhandle for the past month. Although I did kind of blow myself away, with a deep thought: I’m pretty sure I figured out the secret to marriage.

My epiphany was slow building. First I had a few conversations with both of my adult sons, and then I also wondered to myself why I just didn’t smother my husband in his sleep when he kept me up at night with his snoring.

And then my epiphany slowly began to form, and I started to understand the reason why I didn’t go all Lorena Bobbitt on Hubs: I liked him, and I’d miss him. I’d really miss him, because who would go paddle boarding with me? And bicycling? And who would pause football to explain to me which guy slept with Jessica Simpson? And who would take stupid road trips with me to run ten, or thirteen miles? And what man would pause Shark Week, and wait patiently while I snort-seal-laughed at a goofy pin on Pinterest?

Only my Hubs. Because he likes me too.

And that’s when it hit. My epiphany. The secret to marriage is not love. It’s like. Love comes and goes. And the only constant, never-ending, unconditional love is paternal. Right? I don’t love my husband at 2AM, when his snoring is keeping me awake; I’m not all dreamy-eyed, lovey-dovey toward him; but I don’t go all Burning Bed on him either, because I genuinely like him, and I’d miss him. And I am certain that’s the reason people stay together for so many years; they really, really like each other.

And as soon as my epiphany subsided, I texted to my adult boys. “When you find The One, make sure you like her, because love comes and goes, but like is what keeps you from smothering her in her sleep.”

One of my sons responded with a “?” And I haven’t heard back from the other one. Well, what do I expect, they are twenty-six, and twenty-two, and pretty much think I’m a goofball.

But ah Hell, who knows. Maybe my epiphany is all B.S., and just a result of being a shut-in for the past month with a leaky roof, stir-crazy dachshunds, a new hormone compound, and an intestinal parasite. I guess I’ll let you know in, oh, about forty years.


%d bloggers like this: