I was right. Ben was extremely thrilled to hear that Robert Redford is now off the market and it brings his competition down into the low twenties, as I have a whole list of people I will eventually imaginary-marry.
Except I say imagimarry, because I'm weird like that.
Ben told me all this as he tucked into a hamburger that he made on the barbecue in the backyard, because he's home for an extended long weekend. I'm sure he'll chase the burger with a lipgloss and some Bridget-porn and we'll pick up right where we left off. We seem to have the ultimate in-the-moment kind of marriage, where it doesn't matter where we've been or what we've done, the second we are back in the same atmosphere we're taking the same breath and deliriously thrilled to be in each others' company, with endless grins and boundless affection to bookmark separations that are too long and too painful to even mention, let alone explore with any effort. I know what I signed up for and so far I'm getting gold stars for being a good wife under duress. Imagine that.
Benjamin was tremendously grateful that Caleb didn't manage to extract too much of my soul, that August and I made up with the ease of true friendship and the boys were getting along otherwise and that, for once, he smells like burned meat instead of airplane fuel.
Chased me around the house for a whole damn hour yelling OM NOM NOM PRINCESS CARNIVORE! The kids were squealing. I tried to climb the dining room drapes and settled for throwing myself into the dumbwaiter three seconds too late and was pulled out by my ankles for a long delicious charbroiled kiss and two days of stubble that turned me rose-pink.
And I'm the weird one?
Right on.
