My husband is my best friend. Since we got together so young and have been together for so many years, we’ve grown up together. We’ve been through pretty much all the things that adults go through, both good and bad, and we’ve done it side by side. I won’t lie — marriage is not exactly what I expected. I mean, before the wedding, I spent a lot of time worrying about toilet seats being left up (which never happens) and no time worrying about abysmal and inefficient dishwasher loading (which always happens). But there are some things about marriage that I find far more surprising than others.
For starters, I never would’ve guessed that my husband would be my best friend. I grew up with a strong belief in the power of the BFF relationship. Though I had lots of guy friends whom I loved and adored, my girls were the real deal. They were the ones who got a damp shoulder when the man of my life screwed up. They were the ones who listened to my complaints about all the things that may have been bothering me at any given moment, and they were the ones who always came first. Always. I was a devout follower of the “chicks before…” (well, you get the idea) religion.
So it was with some dismay that I turned around one day and realized that the man whose name I took had also become my bestie. And yet, it took a while for it to sink in. Don’t get me wrong, I still have my girls and they still listen to my complaining, but at the end of the day, I keep finding this husband person is the one who knows it all. He’s now the keeper of the secrets, the listener to my tirades, and the one who comes sometimes first or second, but mostly third. (We have two kids. That’s how these things work.)
I also think that my single-self would have found it downright shocking that I do not care about the appearance of what I wear to bed. One too many episodes of “Days of our Lives” gave me a warped vision of marital bed-wear. Not one single show led me to believe that my pajamas would be based almost entirely on the season. When it is cold, I wear as many things as are required to keep me warm. That always means two pairs of pants, three to four tops, wool socks, and, on occasion, a hat and/or hood. Nor would I have believed that in the summer, I would struggle to find a balance between wearing as little as possible and also not scarring my children for eternity. The rest of the year is spent either wearing too much, and waking in a pool of my own sweat, or too little, and waking up shivering, forcing me to sneak a dog into the bed so I can steal his heat.
Maiden-me had wanted to have three children. After all, I am one of three children, many of my cousins were birthed in groups of three, and even a good portion of my friends claimed two other people as siblings. It seemed a given to me that I would continue on this path. Therefore, it was with great surprise that I gave birth to only two children. Mostly it was surprising because I still feel like I am raising three children since my husband often behaves like one. I used to try and fight it. I used to do things like pull him aside before I yelled at the kids to put away their shoes, and give him the opportunity to clean his up before they could see that he, too, was willfully disobedient. But after 20-plus years, that courtesy has expired. Now, when I yell out first AND middle names, his comes first. Last Mother’s Day I even had him include his name and birthstone on the mother’s ring I asked him to order.
Which leads me to the unexpected fact that married-me must select — and sometimes even order and then wrap — my own gifts. My mother was so good at this particular skill, that she even wrote cards to herself. It was many years before I realized that the warm appreciation I thought she was expressing to my father each time she opened a cherished item, was actually her mocking him. But even then, I somehow convinced myself that this was unusual, that my father was somehow alone in his ineptitude at gift-giving. Instead, I have discovered that this is a common ailment amongst married men. So I didn’t even blink when I opened up a large Christmas gift one year to find a shiny new coffee Ninja when I had specifically, directly, requested a heated foot massager. The Ninja doesn’t even have a hot plate where I could at least warm up half a foot at a time.
But perhaps the biggest and best-kept secret about marriage is the man-stink. Why does NO ONE talk about this? When I would harass my weary parents out of bed on weekend mornings as a child, I didn’t put much thought into the smell. If I had, I would’ve just assumed that it came from sweaty sneakers or the dirty laundry hamper. When I got to college and found a nearly identical stench in the male dorms, my brain made the connection, and again blamed wardrobes. This is easy to do in college, where I learned that many of these foul creatures believed that Lysol could be substituted for laundry detergent.
It was with dawning horror that I discovered the odor followed us to our first apartment and every other bedroom we have shared since. And still, it was not until this year, over two decades into incense burning and Febreezing, that I have started to coax other women to talk about the man-stink. It’s like they’re not sure how to deal with the PTSD. I mean, I get it. We can still hold out hope, no matter how small, that our husbands will one day learn to put the clothes IN the hamper, not ON the hamper. But there is no such hope that they will suddenly stop emitting man-stink. It clearly spans generations, race, and class, leaving no one safe. But the first step towards healing is admitting that there’s a problem. And the second one is buying stock in Febreeze.
All in all, this marriage thing is pretty great. I won’t call it perfect, but I’ve never been a fan of the Stepford Wife vibe, so imperfect is okay with me. But if someone could come up with a handbook, that would be great. And I don’t need to hear that he’s from a different planet (thank you, Captain Obvious), I need to hear the best ways to coexist on this one, bad smells and all.
Lysol is never a good substitute for actually washing one’s clothes and I feel sad that I actually had to write that. There are many ways to get clothes clean and if you’re looking to save money, you can even make your own laundry soap. Many years ago, I shared a recipe for laundry powder. Wellnessmama lists it here and gives you options for both a powder and a liquid. I prefer the liquid but find the powder easier to store. Feel free to add a little essential oil for scent, but don’t expect it to help with man-stink.
