I've known my husband since I was 11 years old. He's been my best friend starting sometime around when I was 15 when he was old enough to drive out to the ranch to talk horses with my dad, and teach my little sister to play chess. We went to college together, we got married and we've moved six times. We're about to bring a second child into this world together.
He's been the person in my life that unclogs the shower drain, keeps my wardrobe in check (whether I appreciate it or not) and the sole reason I'm not watching television on my dorm room-sized TV, movies on VHS and talking on a Zach Morris-era cell phone.
And I make sure to keep his snap-shirt collection stocked.
We're a good team, he and I, opposites in the ways that are useful - like I'm good at breaking things and he's good at fixing them.
I didn't really know it about myself at the time, but I think I stuck with him all those years because, as a musician with unconventional career aspirations and a weird travel schedule, I appreciated a man who was fine with not knowing what state I was in some days. A marriage to someone a little more uptight would have never worked out.
He would have had to endure too many poorly-planned trips to Kansas to stay at a Super 8 and listen to me play music to a crowd of 10 people. And a man who requires a thorough plan to make sure he packed the right loafers would have never made it past South Dakota with me.
Yes, he's always been the king of handling it, talking it through or at least giving me a logical explanation so I can make my own decision on whether or not to panic.
But this morning I woke to the disturbing sound of something scratching at the outside of our house. Like claws running up and down the siding on the exterior of our bedroom, which I thought was weird, because our bedroom is on the top floor. And what could climb up there?
And then I just thought it was the cat, except it couldn't be because cats don't generally climb straight up the side of a house.
Or find themselves inside of a wall. Because, holy s*&% I think there's something crawling inside our walls!
Which is what I screeched to my sleeping husband in the dark, the sweet sound of morning at the ranch rousing him from his dreams...
"What the hell is that?" I asked, sprawling my round, pregnant body on top of his as if smothering him was going to save me whatever decided to take up residence in our insulation.
To which my laid-back, no-big-deal, Mr. Fix It, drain-unclogging husband calmly replied,
"Do you want me to tell you the truth or do you want me to lie?"
And just like that the man I've known and loved since we were children made me question every choice I've made in my life up to this very unsettling point.
I should have married a man with a loafer collection ...