Sitting at the food court, me eating Chic-Fil-A, Kenny eating noodles.
Me: Are you glad you married me instead of getting a Cadillac?
(Let me explain. A Cadillac is Kenny’s dream car. He always points them out to me when we’re traveling. He also jokes that I am his Cadillac, meaning he spent money to get married rather than buy his car.)
Kenny: There’s no way to answer that. I obviously didn’t buy a Cadillac, so I don’t know if I’d be glad having it.
(At this point I am only mock indignant. We’ve been married twelve years and have had this conversation-or some variant thereof-many times. I’m not anywhere near June Cleaver territory on the scale of perfect wives, but I’m not totally terrible either.)
Me (After five minutes or so of mock pouting and bickering): But I’m the best wife you’ve ever had, right?
Kenny: That’s a safe bet.
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In the kitchen. I’m spinning around singing some kind of song that has been floating around in my head for the past couple of days and Kenny is doing his best to put up with it.
Me: I wonder how much of me is who I am and how much is who you made me to be.
(I don’t mean “made” in a forced sense. I mean influenced. I was still a teenager when Kenny and I first started sitting together in church, riding around in cars and generally causing rumors in our small town church. Therefore, I’ve been around Kenny for about half my life and there are many areas in which he played teacher/instructor/professor to my teenager/student/brat.)
Kenny: There is no way to determine that.
Me (as if Kenny hadn’t said anything): I mean, I don’t dress up. I don’t wear make up. I barely brush my hair. If I were married to a different man, do you think I’d do those things?
Kenny: If you had a stupid husband you might.
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At Wal*Mart after church, looking for chili mix.
Me: Can I ask you a question?
(This is my standard way of approaching any topic that makes me anxious or uncomfortable. Kenny knows this.)
Kenny (who is now on guard): You just did.
Me: Did you tell people at church that you want me to drive?
Kenny: What? No, I don’t think so.
(A note is in order here. I have a license. I have driven. Kenny says I drove for about a year before I didn’t anymore. I don’t remember that part. I just remember being terrified. I get scared easily anyway in unfamiliar situations, and driving compounds this fear a hundred fold. Kenny, who is afraid of nothing-not spiders, not death, not the dark-has picked up on this fear and much prefers to do the driving himself. Since I prefer to let him drive and since we work in the same place, this usually isn’t a problem. Every now and then, however, someone will see the license in my purse or not understand my jokes about why Kenny had to go to Nashville to see “Wicked” when he doesn’t like musicals and the conversations begin anew.)
Me: Well, I heard you said you wanted me to drive, but that I was scared.
(Which I am. Very much so.)
Kenny: Would it be convenient if you could drive? Sometimes. But does it terrify me when you do? Yes.
(At this point, he is raising and lowering his hands like one would a scale)
Kenny: So would I rather be inconvenienced than terrified? Yes. So it’s not a problem.
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At work.
Me (after proofreading an obituary that included the deceased’s places of residence, club memberships and hobbies): When I die, are you going to put my whole biography in there?
Kenny: I don’t know. I might just say “Dead. Now.”