Ladies, let’s be honest. Being married to any man isn’t easy. Even the best of mates can really try your patience as the years pile on. But being married to a man like my husband Rick for over 30 years is basically a highly-ritualized marathon of sadism and carcinogenic fury — and that’s what makes it work.
When I first met Rick, I fell hopelessly in love with his potential for change. But as I’m sure you all know, after a few decades of emotional atrophy and lack of initiative on his part, I began to understand what a disappointing return he had become on my initial investment in him. As my love for “what-could-have-been” began to wither, a deep and abiding need to fix “all-that-has-gone-wrong” began blossoming in its place, and now, 32 years on, our union has never been more solid or wrathful.
You see, my need to change each and every aspect of Rick’s terrible personality, from his revolting eating habits and poor conversational skills to his general disinterest in anything that has happened since the Carter Administration, is what has bound us to one another in a way I never thought possible.
At this point, divorce just isn’t a credible option. There is an impossibly detailed and extensive list of things he’d have to stop and/or start doing differently before I could even think of leaving him. I just hate him too much to let go.
So Rick, if you’re reading this, thank you for keeping the flame of my unbridled rage at you alive in my heart. Your wholesale dedication to ineptitude and general decline is the one thing I’ve come to rely on in this relationship… because, baby, it’s all we’ve got.