Monday, August 4, 2008

Seventeen Switcheroo

I am still basking in the glow of our 17th wedding anniversary when something strange hit me. My husband is different. He looks like Frank, walks like Frank, talks like Frank. Therefore, he is Frank.

Except he's not.

There were several strange acts of behavior this weekend that set off the warning lights. Case #1: Friday, he only worked a half a day. This normally leads to panic about paying the bills and a very cranky man lying about the house complaining. What I got? A man who came home and took his family out to lunch. Willingly! Case #2: I had to work on Saturday even though Saturday's are my day off. The man was not happy about it. He griped as I walked out the door. This would normally lead to his calling me at work a bajillion times - for no real reason - except possibly that he could not find...oh, I don't know, mayonaise (or something equally stupid). Were there any phone calls? No. Was the house clean when I got home? Yes. Did he willingly take me out to dinner that night instead of waiting for our actual anniversary? Yes.


Case #3 has stumped me the most. I had the opportunity to sleep in yesterday. And I did so. I slept OBNOXIOUSLY late. I dragged my worthless body out of bed somewhere a little after noon. It felt glorious. In such a lazy state, I had no desire to make lunch. This would normally lead to demands of everyone fending for themselves no matter what there was (or wasn't) in the house to eat. What I got? The man (God love him!), went and got us lunch. And as if that wasn't enough, I had flippantly mentioned that I was tired of how our furniture was arranged in the bedroom and he went in and began the task of dismantling things so that we could rearrange the furniture to my liking! But WAIT! That's not all...when the room was almost to where we wanted it to be, I realized that in all of my over-sleeping laziness, I never took anything out for dinner. The man went and got CHINESE!!!

So, as I relaxed last night in my newly arranged room, exhausted from all of the moving and the cleaning, I asked 'what's up?' His response? "I just love you". Seventeen years later (nineteen if you count the dating) and I still get like a love-struck girl when he says it. He swears that all this has nothing to do with my smokin' hot highlights or my getting-thinner-everyday-body.

Whatever the reason, I'll take it!

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