In three months and one day, Husband and I will celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary. And we were together for six years before we made it official in the eyes of New York State and a rabbi who spilled wine down my dress. Anyway, that’s a heck of a lot of years to live with the same person. It’s made me kind of lazy about some things. Grooming. Watching my language. Putting away laundry. Whose turn it is to toss the dead mouse into the back woods. But one thing I’m trying not to get lazy about: defending my writing and editing boundaries.
Fortunately, I have a door that closes. Unfortunately, I don’t have a door that locks. Also, I need to get out of said room from time to time, to attend to certain vital functions like recaffeinating and grabbing snacks. Husband is a sensitive and intuitive guy, an artist as many of you know, but it’s only natural that he, well, forgets once in a while that even though I might not be actively pounding keys at the point when he chooses to interrupt me to tell me something funny he just saw on the news or that he’s going to get the mail, THERE’S STILL A BOOK GOING ON IN MY HEAD AND YOU’RE NOT INVITED.
Maybe I need a hat of some sort. Nothing fancy like those silly things Fergie’s daughters wore to Prince William’s wedding, but just a particular accessory to alert Husband that I’m not mentally present. So when he surprises me with the fact that I need to get in the car because we have to be at such-and-such’s house in fifteen minutes because I TOLD HIM IT WAS OKAY and even that I’d make a side dish, I can avoid further argument by hat default.
Yes, hat default. Was I wearing the hat when you asked about it? Yes? Okay, your protests are now null and void. Have a nice day. And don’t forget to put black olives in the pasta salad.