Life Happens: One year down, 50 or 60 left to go

Feb. 24, 2011 at midnight
Updated Feb. 23, 2011 at 8:24 p.m.

By Aprill Brandon

It was a typical Saturday afternoon for my husband and me. He had gotten up early, made coffee, took the dog out, checked his e-mail, watched three reruns of "Lost" and was working on a cure for cancer or whatever else it is he does before I groggily roll out of bed at noon. After consuming my standard gallon of black coffee, I attempted to make breakfast, which was followed by both of us attempting to choke down two plates full of randomly shaped black objects. We then commenced with our favorite weekend activity, which was lounging around on the couch for the next five hours in our brightly colored, cartoon-themed "weekend" pants.

In other words, we had settled happily into our new married life routine.

But then something occurred I've since dubbed the "Bee for Vendetta" Incident of 2011. My husband, a.k.a. "Sugar Pants, " stepped out onto the porch where he was, in his words, "viciously attacked by a giant, crazed bee, hell-bent on destroying him." Unfortunately, all I saw through the sliding glass door was dear 'ol Sugar Pants flailing around the yard and screaming like a little girl.

Naturally, being the kind and concerned wife I am, I immediately fell to the ground laughing. Once I had finally stopped the tears of laughter from rolling down my face, however, I had a sudden realization. Even though we've been together for five years and are on the verge of our one-year anniversary, there are still things about my husband I don't know (take, for instance, the fact he's a little scaredy girly man when it comes to small flying insects).

One might think that five years would be plenty of time for me to truly get to know my husband. But then, you'd be assuming that he wasn't a member of the gender that considers lighting farts on fire one of the highest forms of entertainment.

Despite all those self-help and dating books that suggest men are simple creatures (and several personal anecdotes that involve male friends and games such as "Hey, Smell This"), guys, and in particular, my husband, are still a mystery to me. In fact, just a few weeks ago as we were packing to move to Boston, I discovered my husband is a candy hoarder. In every nook and cranny of our house were stashes of gummy bears, candy bars and what appeared to be at one time, some form of licorice.

Now what would possibly compel a man to do that? And for that matter, why is he apparently physically unable to put his socks in the laundry hamper? I've found them in the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom, the hallway and even sometimes right beside the hamper, but never actually inside it.

There was the time he mixed Pepsi and one of those pre-made ice cream cones in the blender and then drank it.



Not to mention, he and his iron stomach seem completely oblivious to expiration dates. He's eaten things that have been in the fridge so long, they have mutated into an entirely different species (that may or may not have developed conscious thought).

How is he able to play video games for 16 hours in a row? How is it possible he has a limitless supply of stories that begin with a friend who has a ridiculous nickname such as "Pud" and ends with "and that's why we're not allowed back in Nevada"? Why is it he can break six ribs after falling down the stairs and refuse to go to the doctor, but should he catch a cold, he suddenly can't even reach the remote or fluff his own pillow?

Baffling, I tell you.

Now, granted, I'm sure I do things as well that he finds utterly mysterious, such as why I continue wearing that one pair of shoes that make my feet bleed should I walk farther than four feet and how I can have a "fat" day when my weight hasn't actually changed from the day before.

But I guess when it comes down to it, that's one of the great joys of marriage. You can spend every single day with this one particular person, telling the same stories over and over again, eating the same meals, going out to the same restaurants and bars. You think you know all their habits and quirks, all their history, all their personality.

And yet you can still constantly learn something new about them (like, say, discovering a certain someone is a fan of "Grease 2," not that I'm naming any husband of mine in particular).

Aprill Brandon is a columnist for the Advocate. Happy Anniversary, Ryan. Thanks for putting up with me and my shoes all these years.



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