This morning I had to get out of bed at dark o’clock. No, I wasn’t going fishing. It’s winter here, our thermometer is doing a tap dance on the freezing mark, and sitting out on a lake with a fishing pole in one hand while fighting off hypothermia with the other is far from my idea of fun. I know. I’ve tried. No, my wife has jury duty and had to leave the house no later than 7:00 to be at the courthouse by 8:00. For me, rising at 6:00 during fishing season is a cake walk. Because a bass tournament may be a half state away, I’ve been known to pull my ass out of bed just about the time my head was hitting the pillow. But during the winter even getting out of a warm bed at 6:00 is a chore. You have to remember that this writer has been retired for four years come March, and my idea of “a morning commute” is a trip to the bathroom before crawling back in bed. But because my wife and I have been married longer than she would care to admit, I opt to rise and make coffee for her while she dresses and puts on her face. It’s the least I can do for the mental torture I have caused her before, and, most likely, long after this day is over.
And then she comes down the stairs. Because the fragrance of her perfume preceeds her, I look up from the sports section of my newspaper before she is even comes into view. Then she rounds the corner. Wearing a knitted white turtle-necked sweater with a draped gold chain that I bought her “who knows” how many Christmas’ ago, and black dress slacks, her perfectly combed shoulder-length blond hair seems to glow. And there I am, behind the kitchen nook, dressed in baggy sweat pants and a T-shirt, unshaven, and looking as if I just walked out of a refugee camp. Talk about feeling like the frog and the princess…I don’t care. Sixty-eight years of age or not, at that moment she is absolutely stunning.
I hate it when she does sneaky shit like that! Now I have no choice but to keep her another year. Sigh!