I once interviewed a very successful, uber-sophisticated author, and the topic of marriage came up. “I don’t think people are meant to be married for life,” she said, her manner both cavalier and convincing. “We change. Our needs are different. It’s naïve to think the same person would be right for a lifetime.”
“Mmm,” said I, immediately conjuring my beloved grandparents, who were happily married for 67 years. “Well, till death do us part, right? That’s the dream.” The author gazed at me, pityingly, kindly. “Aren’t you adorable,” she murmured. Many years later, however, I’m still with my original husband. We are solidly, happily married, more than any other couple we know. I adore him.
This is not to say I don’t contemplate spousal murder from time to time. Every time he gives me the You’re wrong look, I feel the urge to smother him. His insuppressible urge to correct every tiny detail — “It’s not a nail. It’s a brad,” he’ll say, as if that matters to anyone but him and Norm Abrams. He thinks his memory is as carved in stone as the Ten Commandments, making me always wrong. If I tell him something doesn’t work — the car door lock, the air conditioner — he immediately assumes it’s operator error, only believing me when it fails for him. I find myself listening to Dateline’s podcast more and more, storing away ideas and learning from the mistakes of other spouses. You know. Just in case.
According to Google, half of all marriages end in divorce or separation. I don’t anticipate that for my husband and me, but … well … there is the fantasy of being a noble widow. Oh, come on. He’s had the same idea. Not too long ago, he lovingly said, “I hope you die first, honey, because you’d be too sad without me.”
“Are you kidding?” I said (also lovingly). “I’ve been planning for widowhood since before we met. You die first. I’ll be fine.” After all, my husband is a firefighter and plays with power tools in his spare time.
Since then, we’ve had an ongoing discussion of all the fun things we’ll do when the other dies first. I plan to paint our kitchen cabinets yellow and buy delicate, flowery china, since he won’t be around to break it. He’ll keep the TV permanently tuned to This Old House at a volume that would hurt my ears, were I still alive. He’ll visit the national parks of Florida since during my life, I refused to go, dreading both alligators and mosquitoes.