Yesterday morning, as I walked my wife out to the car, I asked her “Guess what tomorrow is?” She looked puzzled for a few moments, made a guess or two. I told her “It’s our anniversary!” She smiled and we twittered back and forth about what to do, settling on getting a pedicure and going to eat a good steak. We smooched and we went off to our day’s work.
When she came home, she announced herself as “It’s your wife, of XX years!” (For identity-theft security reasons, I will only say that it is more than twenty, but less than fifty). We had a task to perform that we usually do together – we sell a product online and every few weeks we have to whip up a fresh batch. She and I just hung out and worked on the new batch, assembling and packaging the items for later sale.
Gemey had spun up a music program on her tablet, it was playing her favorite mix of songs. Before long she entered a state that I call “girl happy.”
There are many levels of positive feelings that a human can experience. One can feel satisfaction from a job well done. One can feel delight when a wee one does something precious. Unbuttoning your pants after an epic meal is yet another.
“Girl happy” seems to be a state where a girl feels safe, secure, loved and pretty all at once. It seems to be the feeling one has when you can have a margarita AND cheesecake, and not worry about being judged by yourself or others. It’s a state of being happy that it seems completely appropriate to sashay and wiggle to a tune. My wife does find her “Girl happy” spot periodically, but not as often as I would like to see, because I love to see it.
This morning I came downstairs. My early-rising wife was getting ready for work, and as is my usual I said something like “there’s my sweet baby.” Her reply was “There’s my man of XX years.”
The girl happy was still there. It made me feel good too.
Our world seems to have turned its back on things like fidelity, commitment and keeping one’s shoulder to the grindstone. My wife has always been a fantastic partner and a good friend. I trust her, and she trusts me. Over the years I have continually worked to be a good husband. Sometimes my husbanding looks like that candle holder I made in art class in 3rd grade…lumpy, misshapen and completely unfit to hold a candle.
Even so, when you smart, beautiful and formidable darling of XX years starts to shimmy and slide to a wonderful, romantic Motown tune when it is just you two, when she exudes the existential joy that is so elusive, perhaps I’ve not done so bad.
Happy anniversary, baby.