This past weekend was the first time we’ve been apart for more than eight hours since we’ve been married. I initially thought it would offer some welcome time to relax and unwind and listen to Luther Vandross in dim lighting while soaking things (y’know, “me” time), but rather found myself knee-deep in the five stages of grief – particularly the “eat-until-the-voices-stop” stage. Alas, however, you did come back home and brought back with you the essence to my constitution like a once-neglected waiting room Ficus plant after a desperate splash of water. Yes, much like Michele, Kelly, and Queen Bey, I am a survivor. And as a survivor, I walked away from this tragic experience with some blood-earned lessons. And I feel a duty to share those lessons with you in the hopes that you will 1) Appreciate the level of unhealthy attachment I’ve grown for you and that 2) You’ll never leave me for a whole weekend again (until your next Roommate Reunion with five of the rad-est chicks I know).
When a husband is left alone for the weekend, anything more than 6 minutes of vacant silence is automatically filled with phantom sounds of Adele ballads. Complete with sepia tone filters and clumps of mascara tears. So, from this past weekend I’ve learned the need to keep all and any silence at bay. Suggestions: Netflix, a table saw, or the muted ruffles of wrestling puppies. Or a playlist of Adele ballads.
Grocery shopping is impossible if either you’re not there with me or if I’m not there on a specific wife-errand with a list you handwrote. Having neither, I showed up to the checkout line with a cart full of refined carbs and beverages that the Marines use to clean toilets and hummer engines.
I have no idea where you keep anything. I even googled “common storage places for X-Box controller batteries” (which, it turns out, are simply AA batteries). I was an English major.
My movie-seeing etiquette is solely based on the customs we’ve cultivated together and, taken out of coupled context, simply becomes a lone man crying, squealing, and pointlessly talking to himself and the irritated people around him. For some reason, the stranger next to me wasn’t interested in the fact that my left butt cheek had fallen asleep. Or that it was the first time I’d spent a weekend away from my wife; he was probably able to tell on his own.
I should not be left unsupervised with an Amazon Prime account.
The movie Moonstruck is grossly underrated. I watched it for the first time at 7:00PM on Saturday night while the rest of the world’s 20-somethings were outside self-actualizing their dreams. And I was floored by its New York-Italian charm. Not only does it capture that brief moment in history before Nicholas Cage became the headliner in all of my daytime nightmares, it highlights three of my favorite pastimes: middle-aged love triangles, grown men crying at the opera, and Olympia Dukakis. May she rest in peace. She’s actually not dead, according to IMDb.
It doesn’t matter how many Chipotle tacos I eat, how many iPhone covers I buy from China, how many episodes of Gilmore Girls I watch in secret, or how many hours I chose not to spend in the gym even though I’ve had a membership since the Bush administration. Nothing masks the absence of you stealing my covers at night, moving all my things from the floor to places I can’t find, or leaving every single light on in the house when we’re already late. All those things you do that I pretend annoy me, I actually love (with proper retrospection). And putting my macho, Gaston-esque stature aside, I so much missed all those millions of small things that fill our walls, fill our inboxes, and fill our lives.
Seriously, where do you keep the batteries?