Our six-year anniversary is on Saturday, so naturally I've been reveling in memories. The first couple of anniversaries are sweet affairs, but after year five, you start to reminisce about the good ole days: Way back when your husband tried to hold his farts 90% of the time, or those early arguments over silly things like clothes shrunk in the laundry or a badly botched attempt at a homemade dinner. Noah and I aren't generally the arguing type, but there have been a few hot-button issues in our relationship.
When we were first married, I once stomped into the living room of our apartment—which wasn't, unfortunately, very effective, since our apartment was 500 square feet and stomping from one point to another required a good stutter step to make it count for anything—anyway, I stomped the four steps from our bedroom to the living room holding a handful of candy wrappers I'd just collected and told him I refused to spend the rest of our lives picking up his trash.
So far, I've spent six years picking up his trash. Only now (since he's been on A Health Regimen) it's the cellophane from popcorn bags and scraps of paper from the pockets of his uniform I gather into little piles of bitterness.
When we were first married, however, there was more generosity between the two of us. Particularly in the bedroom. Ew you guys, don't be so gross. I'm talking about making the bed. Pervs.
Since about two years into this little domestic experiment of ours, every time we change our bed sheets there's been an argument. Now in most cases Noah will admit that my perception of spacial relationships is superior (the C in sophomore year geometry notwithstanding); I can pack a suitcase or a hatchback car with startling aplomb. But he refuses to submit when it comes to how much of the top sheet is hanging over on his side: a luxurious amount, always, as compared to the two inches of wiggle room he allows me. I would let this go if I was the bed hog who always stole the covers during the night. As is the case, I am not the bed hog who always steals the covers during the night. On many occasions only Cody's massive fur coat at the foot of the bed has kept me going until morning.
Recently our arguments have turned to more serious matters, such as the true cause of Houdini's demise. Just last night, we stormed into the office to consult Wikipedia regarding the truth behind Harry Houdini's unfortunate death. (I said he suffocated; Noah claimed it was a sucker punch to the stomach by a professional boxer. Wikipedia reported appendicitis. Case closed.)
And then there's the Brooke Shields–Latisse ad campaign. This particular issue proved such a stumbling block we uncharacteristically had to drop the discussion before resolving the matter. Noah, you see, came across a Latisse ad featuring the multitalented Ms. Shields in one of our magazines and dismissed the ophthalmic solution as an indulgence on par with Botoxing one's lips to thrice the size of normal.
I took issue with his flippancy. (A thorn in the side of my case: The makers of Latisse are also the makers of Botox.) Certainly, I wouldn't call Brooke's before photos an embarrassing display of "inadequate or not enough lashes," but I could see the potential merits of Latisse. When Noah claimed that women would use Latisse "to impress men, and men don't pay attention to that kind of thing anyway," I nearly hit the roof.
This argument took place months ago, and it wasn't until this past week that his own mother proved me right. After receiving the wonderful news that several months of chemotherapy treatments have forced her cancer into full remission, my mother-in-law began using Latisse to help regrow her eyelashes. And the fact that I secretly wish I had a bottle of that magical little eyelash enhancer for reasons of vanity? Totally irrelevant.
In conclusion, as long as Brooke Shields doesn't front any other cosmetic endeavors, Noah and I should be good for another six years. At least.