So I married this guy, a long time ago, a really long time ago, and the other day I'm in the shower and because I'm the kind of idiot grown up who can't forecast that, while stepping into a shower, I might need a towel at some point in the near future, this guy brings me a towel -- as he often does because he knows the kind of dipshit I am and "learned helplessness" blah blah blah "codependency" [yawn] -- but this time he says, "And it's clean-clean not just folded-clean." At this point, my world comes to a screeching halt. All along, all these years... there have been two kinds of clean? There's been this actual clean and this fake folded clean passing for actual clean? I stand there, frozen, in the shower, and I think -- well, this guy is still full of surprises, he's a magical mystery tour and I'm just along for the ride.
And I tell this story now because it's this guy's birthday and because I love him and because when the conversations turn, as they often do, to the difficulties of marriage, I get quiet; I feel like I've wandered into a translation -- a language I understand a little but I'd still prefer subtitles and really can't speak it with any semblance of clarity or grammar or proper syntax. I get picked off as a foreigner in a foreign land. And I really like the Land of David Scott where the towels might -- or might not -- be fresh, but the love is really real.