He Puts Up With This?

He unpacks the night he comes home from a trip; I wait until I need that shirt three weeks later.

He waits until the grocery list has a large number of items on it before taking the list to the store and getting everything on it; I panic about the fact that we have no cumin like it's a national crisis and run to the store on my way home from work without a list and buy lots of things but forget the cumin.

He takes a solid half hour at night with his evening ablutions, taking his time in the bathroom and putting away his dirty clothes for the night. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and floss in three minutes before throwing my clothes onto the floor in front of the bed and dashing into bed. The clothes will stay there for three days before I pick them up.

He reads books about Cicero for pleasure; I read J.D. Robb books and must hide them away in our bedroom so our intellectual-type friends don't judge me harshly when they come over to dinner.

He is excited to see friends and family at our wedding; I am excited to see them, too, but also can't wait for the new plates.

He uses fountain pens he won't let me use because I might bend the nib; I use Pilot pens because they come in purple.

He is often described as dapper; I am often described as frantic. (Funny story: On my teaching evaluations for last semester, a student wrote, "She's doing a great job, but seems kind of frantic. Slow down! You're doing a good job!" And that made me laugh. Frantic is my natural state.)

He eats a pint of ice cream every two days; I have been eating the same quart of ice cream for about three weeks now.

He listens to REM and Radiohead and Tom Waits and has serious music credibility. I listen to Garth Brooks and Shania Twain and get laughed at when people look at my playlists.

He loves his Mac; I tolerate my Dell.

He watches The Simpsons every night as I go to bed and tries to muffle his laughs so he doesn't disturb me. When I get to that funny part in the book when the heroine is a smart ass and puts the slightly abusive husband into his place, I turn to him, look him in the eyes, and laugh.

He sometimes randomly starts spouting off mechanical-type words like derailleur and crank and drive chain and whosywhatsit and tearing apart bicycles on a stand in our living room. I sometimes randomly talk about the absolutely sexiness of chi square distributions and observed and expected values and laying out several different text books all at once in our living room.

He drives from here to there in silence, smiling to himself every now and then when he thinks a funny thought. I drive from here to there with the windows down, radio cranked, screaming out the lyrics.

He researches the perfect perfumes, shaving creams, and razor blades and spends hours at the Neiman Marcus counter sniffing and spraying. I slap some Curel on my body because Amy told me to and I'm done.

He hasn't sent a letter in the real, live postal service mail in years. I desperately try to get birthday cards out to everyone I know every year, on time or not.

He calmly sleeps without moving the covers or his body; I twist and turn, steal the blankets, and occasionally punch him.

He claims the almond M&Ms as his favorite; I think this is blasphemous as I eat half a pound of peanut M&Ms.

He is an oddly perfect foil for my imperfections. Yay for 46 days from now! Invitations went out today!!