A widely accepted convention of love is that opposites will attract. It’s proof is under our roof:
- my husband, whose natural skin tone is the tan to which I aspire, married the lassie of peaches-and-cream, skin that necessitates sun screen, not nonchalance. Freckles that wildly multiply, looking as if God’s painter splattered my body with tan product rather than applying in smooth strokes
- my husband, the natural athlete, married the klutz who was selected last at recess sports, if she dared to go nearby
- my husband, whose restless nature disallows lengthy sits, married a woman who spent a career slouched in three-year-old chairs or seated on the floor – and now sits crouched to a keyboard to write
- my husband, prone to late-in-the-night parties, married the early bird who catches the worm…the worm has turned because we have the same nap and night timeline
- my husband, who disavowed languages (English and German), has written the most clever letters and emails. Yes, he’s as good a writer as I aspire to be. We are more synonyms than antonyms, him and me. Writing is a sustainable brain resource – and good for communicating with friends and family back East
- my husband, whose favorite color was orange, married a blue lover, who converted him to teal green (blue)
- my husband, who loved the Rolling Stones and Who best, embraced the Beatles beyond all other musical groups and forms…and I learned to love bad boy rock-and-roll, plus blues, since then
- my husband, who loves adventure, shares every one with me; sometimes he selects, but, often, he lets me light the spark. After all, it’s the same Master Card payments and points. While I am the accelerator, he is the brake.
We observe the first rule of marriage that only one person can go crazy at a time, the best meaning of opposite that I can conjure.
We are edgy and easy – on each other.