The Things He Says

There are days I could strangle him.

And there are days I could laugh until my sides hurt.

Most days — it’s both, almost at once.

It was a sunny afternoon, and we were walking — headed toward the North Shore Writers Festival — when he turned to me and said, completely straight-faced,

“I’m not ADHD.”

I shot him a look — the kind of sideways glare perfected only after years of marriage — the kind that could bore a hole straight through a brick wall, let alone a husband who knows exactly what he’s doing.

He smirked.

He always smirks.

A little earlier on that same walk, he had casually announced,

“I want to write a book about menopause.”

Then — as if clarifying —

“No, actually, I want to write a book about living with a woman going through menopause.”

I didn’t even hesitate.

I shot right back,

“Actually, I have a letter prepared regarding your offside comment about menopause at lunch yesterday.

If you make one more comment, you’re going to get it.”

Later, mid-walk — after the ADHD comment pushed him officially over the line — I turned to him with mock seriousness and said,

“That’s it. You’re absolutely getting the letter now.”

And just to really twist the knife, I smiled sweetly and added,

“In fact, you should keep going. Every time you say something like that, you give me perfect content for my book.”

Cue another smirk.

Cue another reluctant laugh bubbling up, even as I half-plotted how to shove him off the nearest curb. (Lovingly, of course.)

Sometimes I adore his humor.

Sometimes I hate it.

But maybe that’s just what happens in a long-term relationship —

You find yourself clinging to the very traits that once made you fall in love.

You realize that surviving love isn’t about smoothing out the rough edges.

It’s about learning how to laugh at the absurdity of it all — even when your blood is boiling.

Especially when your blood is boiling.

And maybe — just maybe — it’s the laughter that saves you, after all.