View from the North 40

You live with someone for a few decades and you know everything about them. You’re like “this,” and by “this” I mean the intertwined fingers of oneness — which looks a lot like the crossed fingers used to ward off any bad juju from false promises, but isn’t that “this” this time. It’s for real oneness.

Yeah, that’s my husband and me.

There we were several months ago, going through life like one person, when I noticed that John usually had a light green towel hanging in his spot on the bathroom towel rack. It was a curious little thought. I have those all the time and then forget them and move on. But I noticed it again. And a again.

In just the last few months, I also noticed that the towels in the linen closet were frequently, inelegantly rummaged through and rearranged. I know I didn’t do this, and we’ve had no company, so the only logical conclusion was that the other half of my oneness was up to something.

With my heightened awareness of our towel anomaly and my brilliant powers of deduction, I realized that this green towel thing, most likely, was at “thing,” the kind of thing that is not a coincidence.

I started taking note of where the green towels were in the stacks in the linen closet. Then, after I realized I absolutely was not remembering where the green towels were in the order of go, I started burying them. You know, making sure that they were never on top, so if John wanted one, he had to mess things up to get to it.

Clever, I know. It helped me realize that a strangeness, a “thing,” was inserting itself into the middle of our oneness.

He definitely was getting the green towels out on purpose — so you know I had to ask:

Me: “It’s no big deal, but do you dig around through the towels so that you almost always have a green one?”

John: “Yes.”

Me: “… . OK, so is there a reason for this?”

John: “Yes.”

Me: “… .” (Staring. Unamused.)

John: “Well, I like that they’re not too thick. And you like the thick towels, so I use these, and the cream-colored ones are my second favorite.”

Me: “Oh, OK.”

And I know what you’re thinking, because I thought it too: That’s so oddly disappointing. It was also kind of nice of him and very observant. But where’s the mystery, the big deal “thingness” of the situation? “I like the green ones and you like the others.” Big whoopity ding dong.

Ah, but have no fear, inquiring reader, because I’m not spending this much time on a conversation that is simply dull and pointless. I endeavor to not disappoint.

About two minutes after the green towel confession, John came into the bedroom holding a hand towel as if he were about to give a lecture on it’s importance to the Nobel prize commission for the sciences, and said — in all seriousness: “I also like these blue and white hand towels best, though, I don’t know why.”

He then turned and walked away, but at the door turned back to say: “And I prefer the kitchen towels with the green and white, y’know, stripes.”

Me: “Checks?”

John: “Yes, the stripey-checked ones. I don’t know why.”

Me: And people always assume I'm the odd one, I thought, but said, “Good to know.”

Good to know that our marriage is still fresh, and that our fingers-entwined oneness hasn’t killed all the grand surprises.

(Apparently, I lied about our oneness status. Maybe I did mean to entwine those fingers behind my back after all, at [email protected].)