“Look at so-and-so,” I said to my husband the other day while talking about a married couple who must have been conjoined at birth. “They use “we” whenever they talk about their lives. They do everything together.”
The we-Couples I know always walk together. They are one entity with one head, four hands and four legs. While he cuts vegetables, she cooks. While she puts the dinner away, he loads the dishwasher. They take the garbage out together: she collects all the trash in the house; he rolls out the carts. They make grocery lists together. They hold hands at Safeway. And of course, while they do their taxes together every April, they also itemize the todos of every ordinary day, always watching that they don’t tax each other out. I hear only one note in their marriage: the harmonious "we" note.
On the other hand, we, my husband and I, are the i-Couple. I leave notes for my husband on some mornings like this. “You’ll get your tea after you empty the dishwasher which has been waiting since Alexander The Great crossed the Hindu Kush Mountains into India.” Sometimes I leave a red rose by the note. I’m sweet and all.
These days, when we drive places, the GPS lady comes between us. He listens to her. Note that in a we-Marriage, the GPS lady is one of a threesome, directing the couple towards the perfect union of their souls. In my marriage, the GPS lady seems to have a different angle on everything. She has Occupied the third vertex of our love triangle.
It follows that my husband and I do not walk together. The last time, my man got ready to walk, right about the time I set out for my walk, I warned him. “You know, I won’t talk when I walk,” I said. “I’ll be busy with Michael Krasny or Ira Glass or Salman Rushdie.” So he plugged his device into his ears and marched on ahead. I picked my podcast. I turned right in the direction of De Anza Boulevard. He turned left towards Scotland Road.
Our singular marriage has most relevance in bed. By midnight, my husband may be found in his natural habitat, huddled inside the double layers of comforters, finger pulsating over his phone. I lie down by his side, my iPhone in hand. We are in an i-Marriage.
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