The only way to survive marriage is to laugh a lot.
When you are shackled to another person for the rest of your life, all sorts of laughter counts. For example laughing at ones self is always a good start. That’s all self-deprecating and so, therefore, it makes you look like a good person, and so, marriagable.
But also: there’s the better kind: when you can laugh at HIM.
I so prefer the second option because, well, it’s just so much easier.
Also, you can just, like, laugh at other stuff a lot. This happens with us. We are so deeply wedged into marital bliss that we just wander around the house laughing our arses off at any old thing. Just paid three insurance bills that seemed about equal with the national debt? HILARIOUS.
Did you drop your coffee filter thingie on the floor again at six am, thus covering you, the floor, and cat paws with expensive, caffeinated dirt? I’M HOLDING MY SIDES, STOP IT!!!
Did your four-year old master the art of the nonsensical drop and wail about something so minute and weird you cannot fix or even, really talk him down from today? I SHOULD MAKE A YOUTUBES! LOL!!
Did you get both boys up an hour EARLY because Daylight Savings?
Oh, heck no. Well, some things are just not funny.
My marriage, it seems, is pretty laughable.
No, wait, that sounded bad. What I MEAN is:
We laugh at each other, and ourselves, a LOT.
Last night we had to go to a big, hoity toity dinner thing for Tall Blonde’s work. I do so love these things. Wanna know why? I shall make a list:
1. I really don’t love them I was being sarcastic.
I had to wear real clothes. And high heels. “Real clothes” means a dress, and good Lord, who thought up THAT nonsense? A DRESS? It’s been a while.
Sigh. When one stays home with two boys, writes from home, AND teaches an online class, one starts to think of “professional wardrobe” rather creatively. So, in essence, I put on the dress, and the heels, and then kinda felt like this:
At this point in the game, I was weak. And so, what I attempted next in marital relations is not recommended. It was a foolish move, I realize, and also highly risky.
I spotted the husband in the hall, and I said,
“Honey? Do I look all right?”
I know. I KNOW. This is the Red Wedding of questions. (If you don’t know what I mean about The Red Wedding, GOOD. You DON’T WANNA KNOW.)
What happened next is not for the faint of heart:
The husband looked at me and SHRUGGED.
Now, right here is when you have a crucial decision. You can:
1. Kill him.
2. Kill him in your head, because jail is bad.
3. Not speak to him for the rest of the night. When he finally catches on, tell him, “I’m fine.”
4. Withhold sexual relations until 2021 but offer no explanation.
5. Some willy nilly combination of 2-4.
6. Laugh it off.
I opted for #6. Actually, I did one better. First, I marched right over to him and poked him. “This,” I stared him down, all steely eyed and Clint Eastwoody, “This, punk, is when YOU say: ‘Yes, darling! You look ravishing. Absolutely perfect. And THIN. Did I also mention, smart? You, my sweet petal, are perfection.’ “
(NOTE: Students! Quote marks INSIDE quote marks! Grammar moment!!!! Squee!!!)
And then, I flounced away laughing maniacally. Flouncing, I found, only works so well when you are wearing four inch heels, so then I twisted my ankle and sort of gripped the wall for a minute, but then recovered and clomped away.
Erm. Like this:
AND IF THAT’S NOT FUNNY, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS.
By the way: the marriage is still intact. Tall Blonde has made a serious mental note about the shrugging. As the night progressed, he would whisper sweet nothings to me like, “You are beautiful. I love you. Here, you can have my ice cream. And, really, you’re hot. Can I get you more ice cream?”
Marriage. It’s all about communication, humor, and grovelling paired with caramel gelato.