Lately it seems my husband is everywhere I want to be. It sounds romantic, but it’s not.

Truth be told, I’m starting to wonder if this house is big enough for the two of us.

We celebrated our 22nd wedding anniversary last weekend. After a sweet exchange of romantic cards, chocolates, roses and gifts, I started thinking about what it means to live with a person for such a long time. We’ve actually been together 30 years, which is more than half our lives. Believe me, it’s starting to show.

Anytime I’m headed to the kitchen sink, there he is, standing right there in the pantry. If I’m on my way to the fridge for a carton of milk? Already there. And forget about tossing anything into the trash. There he is, ready to block the shot. The other day I opened the door to our tiny laundry room to toss something into the hamper and screamed. He was in there changing his clothes.

When we were young, we loved being in each other’s way. We lived for it. Now I quote the old Lee Marvin and Jane Fonda movie “Cat Ballou” almost daily, crying out, “Stand back and let me breathe!”

To be fair, it’s not just my husband who seems to be underfoot. When he isn’t around, I’m forever dodging my daughter, doing her spastic TikTok dances, as well as the dog and cat. Sometimes all four of them get going at once in the kitchen, with the dog groaning like a bear and spinning in circles, the cat fleeing from the room, my husband laughing and my daughter recording it all for her social media platform. On those nights, dinner just has to wait.

One day I know I will consider these to be the good old days. I remind myself constantly to enjoy this busy (overcrowded) time. Surely I’ll miss the craziness when the house goes quiet. But until then, I’d do anything for a little peace.

When I was young, I passed a lot of judgements on couples. As a teenaged waitress, I’d marvel when a couple sat in silence during a meal. I’d assume they were bored, unhappy or downright sick of each other and headed for divorce.

“How can they just SIT there and not have anything to SAY?” I’d ask my coworkers. We’d all shake our heads at the tragedy of it all.

Now I know better. After a few decades of marriage, you realize it isn’t all “love, laughter and happily ever after.” To be honest, there’s nothing I’d like more than to sit in comfortable silence with my family and enjoy a meal cooked by someone else and served to us. In hindsight, those people knew how to live.

Another thing I never understood was why men would spend all weekend in their garages, workshops or man caves, while the womenfolk busied themselves inside the house. It struck me as an outdated domestic practice that was downright unhealthy for a modern marriage.

Now, it has my full and enthusiastic endorsement.

Often I catch myself reminding Tim of an errand he was going to run, or a project that needed attention somewhere in the barn on the weekend. It usually works like a charm and buys me a couple of hours. Oddly enough, he always seems more than happy to go.

After 30 years, I think we’ve both come to realize there are some things we never will change. And we have accepted these things. If it was going to happen, it certainly would have happened by now. This is why I refold the laundry and rearrange the dishwasher in silence. It’s the same reason he dutifully vacuums my car and checks the oil without another word.

There’s just no point in talking about it anymore.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m still a fan of marriage. It keeps life interesting. For example, at my house, every day is like a mini CSI investigation. I might ask myself, “Huh, weird. How did that window get cracked?” So I’ll look around the room and eventually I will spy Tim’s golf clubs in the corner. Another day I may think, “Curious. I wonder why the bedroom is like a sub-zero freezer?” And after a little poking around, I’ll discover two windows are open. Mysteries abound.

Perhaps the greatest mystery of marriage, is that your spouse can continue to surprise you as time marches on, even after you think you’ve seen and heard it all.

Yes, indeed. Who knew my 59-year-old husband could do a headstand on a stand-up paddleboard? Not I. He also can fix anything that breaks, give the dog a pedicure and tidy a room faster than Martha Stewart.

With the patience of a saint, he has helped our teen redecorate her room a dozen times, watched reruns of “The Office” for the last 18 months, and agreed to “catch and release” countless live bugs and mice.

He’s generous to a fault. He watched me clip the corner of our mailbox with his truck, and then let me blame it on him. The moment the metal mailbox touched his beloved Tundra, I stopped dead, put it in park and jumped out. Then he had to move it, which scratched the paint. To this day, he has never mentioned the mark it left near the gas cap door, or called me out for being the true culprit.

My favorite farmhand helped me take care of 29 chickens, two donkeys, an aged pony, three collie dogs and more cats than I can count — even though he never wanted any of them. He lugged pine shavings, grain bags, hay bales and pet carriers back and forth for two decades with no complaints, and spent a small fortune in the process. Then, when the critters went to meet their maker, he was there to ease the transition.

Maybe best of all, he still cleans up nice. Aging like a fine wine, his hair is going gray and he has those crinkly lines around his eyes when he smiles. As handsome as ever, I still do a double take when we’re at a dressy affair.

The other night he came home from a long day at work looking especially rumpled, with dirt on his face and his T-shirt. When he finally sat down, my heart skipped a beat. That’s marriage for you.

“Doesn’t dad look handsome tonight?” I asked my daughter.

“Get a room,” she mumbled and fled.

And the beat goes on.

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