Just wanted you to be the first to know. I’m about to become a saint. Actually, I’ve been one for nearly ten years, but just realized that I was due my certificate by which I can prove that I am entitled to the appellation of “Saint.”
Now this may come as a surprise to you, and surely it was something of a shock to me as well. I never expected that I would attain such an exalted position, especially via the avenue that it came by. Namely, being married to you know who.
Yes indeed, you got that right, I’m a saint by virtue of marriage to the Contrarian. After I relate the following story, no doubt you will agree.
It’s an ongoing debate that occurs about this time every year. It’s the A word, namely allergies. Now I don’t have them. My mother did for a number of years, and then apparently outgrew them. The Contrarian has them, and they have become symptomatic in the last few years. But of course, he doesn’t have them, according to: the Contrarian.
For reasons that are explicable only to a demented mind such as his, it’s okay to have a cold, the flu, or any number of other maladies, but allergies? No. I think it may have something to do with growing up on a farm, “having to eat a peck of dirt before you die,” and other such nonsense. But every year we now go through this period of denial. Of course, eventually the symptoms become too too annoying, and we take our medicine like a big boy and voila’ the symptoms abate. But it’s still not allergies, mind you.
For several nights, said big baby man, has had itchy eyes and fits of sneezing. He gets a wet washcloth and bathes his eyes in cool water. “See? It was just salt from the popcorn. Not allergies! Does Joan Lunden hawk washcloths? NO! She sells medicine. And all I need is a washcloth. Thus no allergies.”
“Yes dear,” I murmur, all the while looking with arched eyebrow. “Sure, it’s just salt. Like three times now. Wonder why that is?”
“Well, it’s not allergies, I can tell ya,” he retorts.
“No, certainly not. Why are you sniffling tonight?”
“Sniffling? I’m not sniffling!”
“Sure you’re not.”
“You seem to want me to have allergies.”
“No, of course I don’t, I just want you to face reality. You know you’ll take the medicine eventually.”
“I will not. Last year was just an anomaly. It just seemed like allergies.”
I slight grin creases my face, ever so subtly and I return my attention to the TV. “OK, whatever you say, dear.”
As I said, this goes on until he can’t take it any more. We have all the medicine, some of it nose irrigation prescribed by the doctor. Pretty serious stuff for a guy who doesn’t have allergies.
But this is not the only thing I raise in proof of my right to claim sainthood. No I have more. And hold onto your seats for this one.
On my birthday, last April, the Contrarian decided to reduce his full beard to a goatee. I’d never seen him free of said beard, and only required a trimming when children started to point and ask their mommies, “Is that Santa Clause?” So he did this free of any request from me.
Of course, I hear about it constantly. “My face is cold! I just shaved three days ago! That is another five minutes of my life I’ll never get back! I hate the idea of such a dangerous thing so close to my throat! This is over with fall you know. I can’t do this during the winter!
Now, I have to listen to this day in and day out, and like I said, I never asked for the goatee in the first place. What he calls it is unmentionable in front of company. I have told him to regrow the darn thing, or else stop bitchin’! All said most lovingly ( I am a saint, remember!), and I really do like it actually.
But yesterday, oh Lord, I thought I had hit the fast forward and transported to another planet again. He had been whining telling me about the difficulties encountered in getting the sideburns even. Now this seems a problem men have, I wouldn’t know. He said it caused him a good deal of grief as a young man, pointing to the near top of his head, where he claims they one time ended up being cut to.
Like I said, I don’t know. I nodded with all the sympathy I could muster, and then went off to fix dinner. Not an elaborate meal, but meat, potatoes, vegetable, and salad. The kind of meal a real man needs to work out the math of side burn equalization.
I looked up and nearly dropped my pot. On his head is a paper band, taped together with two adjustable sides clipped with paper clips. “It’s only a prototype, but you get the idea don’t you? You pull the band down to your ears, then adjust the tabs to the height you want. I need to put some marks for a quarter or half inch.” He grins like he’s just discovered the speed of light.
I continue to stare in disbelief. “Get that off your head! Under no circumstances are you to sit down to dinner with that on!” He looks rather crestfallen, but he complies.
I had the upper hand on this situation until last night when the info mercial produced the “chin” exerciser, consisting of a pump inside which was a spring that you put under your chin and pushed down. The Contrarian looked at my knowingly, “I guess I better get that patent started don’t you think?”
Nothing left to say, but I’m off shopping for my