There are moments when I find myself thinking I can’t stand my husband. Sometimes, I even mutter it under my breath after stumbling over his shoes in the hallway or while trying to drift off to sleep amid his snoring. Is it necessary for his breathing to be so erratic? I could probably fall asleep to his snores if only they were more rhythmic.
During dinner, I watch him across the table and ponder how I never noticed the loud smacking sounds he makes while eating during our courtship. Did he put in more effort to impress me back then? Can’t he hear the noise? When a trivial disagreement escalates into a full-blown argument, and I know I’m right, I imagine what it would be like to be alone. I envision a life where my opinion reigns supreme, free from the clutter of his receipts scattered around, or having to turn the car around yet again because he forgot his wallet.
I sometimes wonder if I would be happier with a different kind of man—someone who is aware of his surroundings, someone who takes the initiative to tidy up after himself, or someone who notices when there’s a mess on the counter. There was that one boyfriend from college who was incredibly meticulous; I wonder if I’d have been better off with him. Instead of me nagging, I imagine he would be the one doing the correcting. I daydream about a parallel universe where my spouse shares my focus on the little things. My home would be pristine, my senses would be at ease.
But here I am, in this reality with my husband—the one I chose. Sometimes, I catch him looking at me with admiration. I roll my eyes, feigning indignation. “What? Why are you staring?” “You’re stunning,” he replies, and I shrug it off, pretending it doesn’t warm my heart to hear it.
As I prepare for bed, I glare at my reflection in the mirror. Stepping on the scale makes me groan. “You’re perfect just the way you are,” he says around his toothbrush, splattering toothpaste on the counter in the process.
When I eat pistachios, I have a strange habit: I lick the salt off, crack open the shell with my teeth, and then savor them again. It’s a disgusting method, and I belch loudly afterward, rating each one on a scale of 1 to 10 based on volume and duration. I leave my period underwear soaking in the bathroom sink, sometimes for days, and go far too long without washing my hair, which gets greasy and stringy. I despise bras and forgo them at home, leaving my breasts to swing freely.
My husband often praises my body, insists I’m perfect, tells me I’m a fantastic mom and an amazing cook, even though I’m not. He admires my writing, saying, “I could never write a book; that’s just incredible.” He makes me feel special, as if my existence stands out among billions. He focuses on my strengths and seems oblivious to my flaws. Why can’t he see the imperfections I’m so aware of?
Many husbands pick at their wives, suggesting they could lose a few pounds or tidy up more. Not mine. He embraces me completely, with all my quirks. He can’t hold a grudge for more than a few minutes; I doubt he even knows how.
I could find someone who chews with his mouth closed, someone who remembers to pick up his socks, or someone who snores gently—or not at all. But I could search for a lifetime and never find anyone who can love me as selflessly as my husband does. I may not deserve it, given my flaws and irritability, but he loves me anyway.
He often claims he’s lucky to have me, unable to fathom what he did to deserve me. In reality, he has it all wrong. He could easily have loved someone more deserving—someone less irked by wet chewing sounds. Yet, for reasons unknown, he chose me and continues to do so daily, as if loving me is as instinctive as breathing.
He is not the lucky one.
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In summary, while I may have my moments of frustration with my husband, I recognize the rare and precious love he offers me. I may complain about his habits, but I know that his unwavering acceptance and affection are what truly matter.