My husband has allergies. Lots of them. He should probably be living in a plastic bubble. At the very least, he shouldn’t be living in the city ranked third for being highest in allergens.
But, we can’t move at present, and we don’t know where to get a bubble, so every day I witness his morning ritual.
Immediately upon waking, Michael plods over to his sink where he loudly coughs up 87 different colors of phlegm of all shapes and sizes. It’s a veritable rainbow of snot.
This, in and of itself, would impress you if I were to take pictures of it, but I won’t do that for fear of the inevitable lawsuits it would spark. Anyway, that’s not exactly what I want to talk about.
See, when I first moved in with Michael, I made few distinctions between one of his morning plegmfests and another. Back then, when I’d witness them, my only thought was, “Jesus, one of these days, he’s gonna cough up something he needs.”
But, all that has changed over the years. Now I notice the subtle differences in the length of each spasm and in the depth of each of his coughs. I’m getting to really know my spouse’s bodily functions. I see this as a sign that we’re growing as a couple.
If a stranger had happened by our bedroom this morning, he would have surely commented, “Gawd, your husband sounds awful. He’s gonna cough up something he needs.” And, to the untrained ear, it might sound that way. But, where the me of five years ago would have simply nodded her head in agreement, the me of today would have responded with a chipper, “Oh, no, no, he’s having a good day today. In fact, he’s almost through.”
This brings me to a conversation we just had.
Me, somewhat proudly – I just coughed up something the size of a nickel.
Michael – When you can snatch the goober from my hand, it will be time for you to leave.
He’s right, you know. I gotta bow to the master.