In honor of our anniversary coming up this weekend, I thought I’d take a look at how far we’ve come.
One Saturday morning, when we had been married for about six months (maybe less), I decided I was going to get up and make breakfast. I figured the noise would wake Christian up and he could start his day with this beautiful gift of love I was making in the form of eggs, sausage, pancakes, I don’t know. Some big breakfast.
But he didn’t wake up. So when I got it all ready, I went in, sat down on the edge of the bed, and shook him awake, telling him I had breakfast ready for him. I think he grunted.
I went back into the kitchen and waited. And waited. And waited. And I got madder…and madder…and madder. Until, with my gift of love stone cold on the table, I stormed back into the room and we had a rip-roaring fight on a Saturday morning.
When I said you couldn’t pay me enough to go back to age twenty-five? This is what I’m thinking of.
Some disagreements, however, are much more long-standing. For instance:
We have been married for seventeen years, and for the past twelve, I think, this has been our vacuum cleaner. And for the past eight, I think, it has not worked properly.
Specifically, it overheats and shuts down after it runs for about five minutes. You let it rest ten and then it’ll do another four. Rest another ten, and you get three more minutes of vacuuming time. You get the idea.
We had such conflict over this vacuum cleaner for so long. See, I grew up with a Kirby.
It was deep red and very loud, but by golly that thing had sucking power. And it never stopped working. Ever. I might have hated vacuuming, but at least I knew I was going to get the darned job done in one pass.
I tried to convince Christian to buy a Kirby, but he put his foot down: “We are NOT spending a thousand dollars on a vacuum cleaner! This one is just fine! It just needs the filter cleaned.”
So he’s been cleaning and replacing filters and patching the cord and I don’t know what else—for eight years. Until finally, when my grandmother died, I got her 1970s-era Kirby. I asked Christian to replace the plug, because it was an honest-to-God fire hazard, with fibers sticking out and touching the tines. But now I am a happy woman.
And now, at last, we no longer fight about vacuum cleaners. We keep Grandma’s Kirby on the 2nd floor and use the (insert your own descriptor; you’ll just have to imagine mine) Hoover for the living room and basement. (Although I must say, when I cleaned the van earlier this summer, I had to go get the 1970s-era Kirby, because the Hoover bought in the 2000s wouldn’t run long enough to get the job done.)
So, your turn: what stupid things do you fight about?