My husband is a scientist, a field not usually associated with comedic tendencies. He's a geologist, specifically; an expert in all things dirt and rock. Not exactly the stuff of high hilarity. He's logical, methodical, and practical to excess when the situation calls for it.
But he also has an incredibly sexy talent. He is relentless in his ability to make me laugh.
His sense of humor is not a thing I can quantify or explain. Unlike a stand-up comic, he doesn't walk around telling jokes or spitting out one liners. I seriously doubt he even gives it much thought, truth be told.
It's just him.
It's the perfectly timed lift of an eyebrow across a crowded room following the entrance of a particularly flamboyant acquaintance.
It's composing and sending an impassioned five paragraph email - out of the blue - to a sportswriter who offended him once. Eight years ago.
It's waking up in the middle of the night to find me watching CNN, putting on his best anchorman voice to say "We reeealllly miss Bill Clinton (wahwahwah) and George Bush is a murderous moron," and then falling right back asleep.
I wish I could tell you the gist of the conversation from the other night that had me laughing so hard tears poured down my cheeks and I was gasping for air. Or show you footage of his diva-esque performance to Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love. Or forward you the instant messages he sends me, the font and color changing on every single line as he types 8 careful keystrokes an hour, and still gets the words wrong.
Maybe you just have to be there.
Someone once said that laughter is the shortest distance between two people. I think I believe it; I know my own funny man lives right inside my heart. Oddly enough, it's a whole lot lighter for carrying him around in there.
The two of us have never been a married couple without children, not even for a single day. Early in our marriage, I used to wonder if we'd ever know how to relate to each other without the common bond of raising our kids. I used to worry we'd grow apart, and slowly, without realizing it, become virtual strangers. I used to think that it might be possible for us to wake up some day in the distant future, look at each other, and say, "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"
Because I know exactly who he is, after all. A wonderfully goofy, sincerely amazing man who loves me; one half of a brilliant whole. I get the distinct feeling that our little nest, when and if it ever does empty, will always be mighty full.
Sometimes, not frequently, but often enough, I'll be sitting across from the man I've been married to for more than two decades, the man whose habits I can recite without thinking, the man whose body I know better than I know my own, when just in the middle of a sentence he'll reach out to touch my face and I'll suddenly sense him looking into me while he leans in, almost painfully slowly, to kiss me, with his eyes wide open, never taking his off of mine, until my head swims, my legs lose their purpose, and my heart skips a beat before stopping altogether.
And in that moment, it feels like the very first time all over again.
I could die tomorrow, an obscenely happy woman at peace with herself.
But then, sometimes.
Not frequently, but often enough.
He shows me what forever means.