Yesterday, my husband rolled out of bed, pulled on his tattered running shorts, padded down the steps and grabbed what was left inside the orange juice container in the refrigerator. He gulped it down as he opened the newspaper and turned to the sports section. “Orange juice is good!” he murmured with soft gusto as he considered the empty glass for an instant before he returned to his paper.
A half-empty or half-full glass of orange juice.
My husband enjoys every morsel of his life. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, he just casually and completely enjoys everything — absolutely everything — he does. He takes pleasure in his sleep. He loves to eat. He loves to read. He has a quarters collection that he loves to mull over. He likes to cuddle. He loves sports. He loves history. He likes me. He loves our children. He loves our friends. He likes the garden. Despite his allergy, he even loves the cat. He is always busy but he loves to relax. He finishes every single project he begins. He never thinks that something won’t happen. He doesn’t worry about what might go wrong. When it does go wrong, he fixes it and moves on. He doesn’t ever really seem to need anything. He loves every gift he gets, no matter how small or insignificant or strange. He still has every gift he’s ever been given, including every plastic Cleveland Browns cup his sisters sends him for Christmas.
He never ever lies. And when he tells the truth, it is the kindest version of events possible. He does this without pretension or affectation. In other words, he doesn’t need to think about it.
Every so often, when he’s tired, he’ll be a little grouchy and bossy. You get the feeling that he just doesn’t notice when things really go sour — and sour they go in his life, as in all lives, from time to time. He doesn’t suffer. He doesn’t truly really understand suffering or anyone who has a process in which suffering plays a role. He makes mistakes, but doesn’t dwell on them.
Part of his satisfaction has to do with what he chooses to see. He really doesn’t notice anything that isn’t part of his comfortable view of the universe. Once, to surprise him, I put on a waist-length jet-black Morticia wig to see what he’d say. Instead of my cropped cut, I greeted him in the kitchen with a mysterious mane of hair. He went straight to the mail. “Is something different?” I asked. “Is that a new blouse?” he responded innocently.
I wish I was more like him. I can’t figure out whether he picked me as his mate because we are a good contrast or if he really doesn’t truly appreciate the dramatically different ways in which we approach the universe. I don’t suppose it makes a difference. I love him because I see the difference in us and he doesn’t care.
