My husband is having a stressful week. I think he’s over-analyzing a situation and has nothing to worry about, and he thinks I’m glib and annoying. Toe-MAY-toe, toe-MAH-toe.
The problem is that when you’ve been with someone for 18 years (our relationship is officially an adult!) their pain becomes your pain; it’s like you’re stressed-out by proxy, but in our case my husband is feeling queasy and I am eating all the guacamole.
I have some experience with this anxiety stuff. Just ask my fingernails, my waistline, and my bar bill. What I don’t have experience with is someone I love going through it. I talk to strangers all day long for a living, but I have no idea what to say to my soul-mate other than, “Pass the chips.”
What I cling to is knowing that the most horrible, poop-inducing, anxiety-ridden moments of my life resulted in something great. Two premature births, all of my son’s surgeries, and speaking at a keynote in front of roughly 4,000 people stand out in my mind, but they were all necessary and wonderful in the grand scheme of things.
These events have taught me one very important lesson; good stuff happens to those who don’t die of dehydration from their nervous poops. So, see? I am not glib. I put forethought into donning my rose-colored glasses.
Even if my husband wants nothing more than to rip them off my face and throw them into the street.