He loves me.
He loves me not.
He loves me.
He dropped the Allen key and a plastic bag full of tiny screws, sending them rolling across the hardwood floor in all directions and is swearing now.
He loves me not.
This was the mental game I played watching my beloved Carpenter pick up the various fasteners required for assembling my new stand-up desk, an assignment he insists on doing solo. Sometimes it’s the little tasks that remind me he loves me.
I’m not to be trusted with following directions, using tools or piecing together bits and bobs that require tools. I am not embarrassed by this fact. The Carpenter can’t do what I do for a living, and I don’t pretend to know how to build stuff. Know your strengths. Play accordingly.
The act of building my desk is how I know the Carpenter cares about me. I’ll go even farther. He agreed to go with me to pick it up. Yep. Uh huh. He got into my car, despite the fact that I was driving, and went on the not-so-close-to-home car ride to locate and purchase the desk, loaded the vehicle and buckled up for the journey home.
All this for the bribe of a drive-thru coffee, which I agreed to because I’m not inhumane. I did make him pay for it though. What? What’s his is mine, etc.
When we got home, the assembly of my new white, sleek metal and laminate desk began by cracking open the cardboard packaging and unpacking all the pieces. There were a lot of pieces for a basic desk and a good six pages of diagram instructions.
Oops. He loves me not.
Oh yes he does. You know how I know? Football was on. Read that again. He assembled the desk in the midst of a football game that he was winning and I was not winning. Our NFL pool competition is deep waters. He loves me.
My desk isn’t fancy. It wasn’t expensive. It came in on budget as both a need and a want, which is how any of my purchases are accounted for. This desk was a priority for me. I have different computers for different freelance roles. I was running out of room.
Having a partner who gets the importance of my work and space is everything. Working from home should be comfortable. Now it is.
Besides, sitting is the new smoking, you know. Gravity isn’t kind.
This week, the Carpenter and I will mark 26 years of marriage, a date that calls to mind the promise we made to each other then; the promises we’ve kept. Vows that have both anchored us and guided us through every storm and every calm. One always follows the other. This anniversary is no different.
No matter what the world throws at us, we’re a unified front. Best friends.
He loves me. I love him back.
But just to be clear, I still hope his football team loses, because this column is about as romantic as I get. Go ahead and ask him.
Happy anniversary, Carpenter. I hope you love the new cabinets I’ve ordered. Some assembly required.
You got this. We’ve got this.
Here’s to forever together.
