We have been married now for almost eight and a half years.
Happily, on average. Meaning, if you take 8 and a half years of love, support, growth, sacred moments, conversations, travels, family, concern and divide it by all the little crap, the result is happy.
The common denominator of this marriage is kindness. And that makes all the difference.
Being happily married doesn't mean that we don't annoy the hell out of each other though. Bullshit Jenny. Love doesn't mean never having to say you're sorry. It means having to say sorry all the time. In two languages, no less.
My love has resting bitch face. He alternates this with a deeply focussed brooding philosopher look which I sometimes mistake as his I'm mad at you face. Then there is the complaining thing French people do that we Canadians don't know what to do with because we just want everything nice and positive....a little syrup drizzle of Everything is Going to Be OK.
You have no idea how annoying that is to a Frenchman who needs to share all the things that suck in politics /world / science/ people/ life/ all of creation since prehistoric times over his breakfast of baguette and myrtle jam.
Don't get me wrong. I'm no Little Miss Sunshine. There are a million things I do that annoy him. I hog the covers. I am a very bad, no good, horrible person without sleep. My phone ringer is never on. But the absolute most annoying thing for him is that I misplace everything. I never put things back where they belong. So sometime in a day in our house there is some version of: Honey, where are my glasses? Chéri, where are my keys? Um...have you seen my phone? Mon amour, where is my brain? I seem to have put it down somewhere and have no earthly idea where it is now.
I remember as a kid my mother took me shopping at Dufferin Mall, and for the first time, let me choose my own clothes. I remember getting several pants the colour of skittles. Then before we left, she stopped in somewhere where it was fun to try and twirl on the metal rail. I put the bag down and when it was time to leave, it was gone. Someone had just walked off with it. I was heartbroken. Even my mom's stern words could not make me feel worse.
I had just misplaced my sixth grade popularity by pants.
And I knew it.
Since then, I have done many absent-minded things. Such as locking my keys in the car with the car running.
There are about million keys out there in the universe that once belonged to me. And sunglasses that send me postcards from the voyages abroad on my old train seats. And more than a few umbrellas having a drink at airports, having been left behind at security. Add to this thousands of Gladstone Public Library cards, various gym and store membership cards, missing socks....
This morning we spent about 15 minutes looking for my glasses. My love found them, cleaned them and gave them to me and asked me (again) to find them a home when they are not on my face.
It struck me that I've probably lost years looking for my misplaced stuff. Is this normal?
I looked it up.
It turns out that there could be a gene mutation for absent-mindedness. Dr. Martin Reuter, a researcher at the University of Bonn found that dopamine D2 receptor gene was related to forgetfulness; Compared to those having C-version of the gene, those who had the T-version 'had a significantly higher average of forgetfulness episodes.'
I want to know if I have the T-version, because it would explain a LOT. Such as, where is .....everything?
I tell my love. Whatever, he says. You have bad habits. Yes, there could be a genetic basis but you could be much better at putting things back where they belong.
Of course, he's right.