Sandy Supposes....

Significant Indeed

         My significant other first and foremost is my partner of forty-six years, my hubby and numero uno, Paul. Since he began a career as a professional driver aka trucker with the requisite periods of away time that in the past could be three weeks, but now tends to be five or six days, the family has referred to him as my roomie/room mate.

         There have been people who seem puzzled by these absences. Some cannot fathom it and wonder why we bothered to be married. How can this possibly be a relationship? A few, certain they are witty, remark that we are never together long enough to disagree and argue. Still others seem to worry for me and commiserate with my assumed loneliness. How do you do it? This asked with the pitying stares. Isn't it difficult?

         Paul had not been a long-haul trucker when we tied the knot and dove into the deep end of parenthood. This was a career he adopted long after we made our vows, our commitment to each other. No, I don't believe I forced him into it. Why would he wish for peace and quiet, or a break from me? Sure, I will admit I have my moments as an extrovert who speaks easily with so-called strangers. But so does he. Okay, I like to talk, perhaps ramble, about anything and everything. But his ears have not fallen from their secure perch. His eyes rarely if ever glaze over. I in turn listen to him rant about the idiot drivers that irritate and exasperate him on a daily basis.

         He tends to enjoy romance or chick flicks while I tolerate them only when he is home. For someone of British heritage Paul does not, gasp, believe Monty Python to be even the slightest bit funny. Recently, he has relented somewhat and reconsidered the antics of Mr. Bean. Grudgingly, he will sometimes laugh at the improbable antics.

         Now I'm not complaining that my years -long roomie is humour impaired. Perhaps he is more humour delayed or selective. And he has that right. Our three offspring have teased their father that he has no ha ha. Many times they have speculated and wondered about us. I quip that our old man more than proved his sense of humour 'cause he married me. Yes, he still often glowers and shakes his head when the rest of us are as he puts it carrying on. For some reason he does not like to hear that that phrase references classic British comedies.

         Supposedly everyone has a love language, a method of showing caring, affection, devotion. Paul's love language is a practical one. He has the ability to intuit what someone needs, what will benefit them. Granted, to most couples a tall(er) high profile toilet/commode would never ever in a million years be construed as a romantic token of undying love. After all a toilet is a piece of plumbing common in most abodes. I have difficult knees that have contributed to a lifetime of injuries and corrective surgeries. They balk at lowering me to the normal too-low height of most commodes. One day Paul surprised me with the most wonderful gift.

         I was alerted that something was up when I heard him dragging a heavy object up the nineteen steps to our apartment. Never mind that we were tenants. Paul had purchased a raised toilet for me and he installed it. Hey, do not pooh-pooh this. When the knees grumble and gripe about every movement and loathe to exert themselves, this porcelain throne is a lifesaver. It has been a gift that endures.

         As I mentioned I am a klutz, a person still struggling to master the subtle art of walking. Paul knew what he had signed up for when he proposed. We met as high school students in a most unique, funny as in strange manner. I teetered at the top of a staircase clumsy in a plaster encased leg and two wooden sticks some called crutches. Of course, I launched myself into a tumble and the very real possibility of further bodily harm. Paul happened to be passing at the foot of the stairs and he broke my fall. I thanked him profusely for preventing a broken neck and tottered off to my next class.

         I never dreamed that I'd made an indelible impression, but that chance encounter initiated Paul's curiousity. He created excuses to run into me and eventually worked up the nerve to ask me out. It was then that he revealed he was a competitive pairs figure skater. I had to laugh. Someone who lifted, threw and caught his female partner while they both skimmed over slippery ice had caught me. Huh, who would have believed that. I prefer to tell people that I fell for him despite knowing that I'd fallen on him. What is the harm in semantics? And Paul obviously could recognize serendipity, right?

         I suppose that after forty-six years we've grown on each other, not like moss, or mould, or a rash, but as two mutually supportive people. I have no plans to trade him in for a newer model.

860 words