The first day after our honeymoon, I thought (several times), “Oh my gosh, he isn’t leaving.” I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I imagined we would be on a perpetual date.

Marriage is very different from dating. Dates eventually leave, but in marriage, they put on their week-old jammies, park their keister on your side of the sofa, and turn on some live sporting event or people talking about some sporting event about to come on.

He leaves his pajama pants on the dresser with the legs hanging over my designated dresser drawers. I have to flip them up to get to my clothes.

I’m learning that marriage is a lot of work. Mostly cleaning so far. Two people create twice the mess and have different ideas about what is messy but necessary and what is just junky.

I get cranky when there is a lot of clutter and messiness. I don’t stress the toast-sweat kind of messy, paper towel picker-upper kind, but the things in the wrong place for days kind. Like power tools plugged up on the kitchen counter right danged next to the stove (and yes, it has been there for three weeks. Not that I’m that petty to keep track. No). 

Towards the end of each day, there is a little pile of stinky male clothing on the washer, not enough for a load, but just annoying enough to move it from the top of the washer to the top of the dryer several times a day. Plus, the dirty plate perpetually sits on the edge of the sink, right above the dishwasher. If only the door would magically open, and the dishes would fall neatly inside. Sigh.

But I believe wholeheartedly that he just doesn’t see these things. That man can put a dirty plate with cheese melted on it next to the sink, walk away, and never think of it again. I’ll try to sit for a minute or two after seeing this. I imagine flies using that plate as a landing strip while our dogs counter-surf it to the ground, scattering food bits and flies everywhere. 

I remind myself that Mark’s sweaty clothes are on the washer because he was outside all day in the June heat building a new deck. And his tools are being charged up for the next day’s Honey-Do list. And the kitchen is a mess because he is an excellent cook and I don’t have to be. And I am thankful he doesn’t say anything about most of the messes being my clutter, not his. 

I have to admit that more than half the long-term clutter is mine. In the master bath alone, there are several types of hair scrunchies (everything old is truly new again) and a bathroom sink (or two) filled with half-empty makeup products. It would be nice to utilize the multiple bins stuffed under the sinks and in the closets, but each is filled with half-empty Amazon fountain of youth purchases, such as eyelid stickers. 

For just under $30, I received 400 tiny pieces of ‘surgical grade, completely invisible’ silicone stickers, guaranteed to give me that coveted second eyelid. It didn’t work, but I kept them in case I wanted another try.

And the hair products. I’m experiencing my third or fourth midlife crisis now and have decided to rebel against my Mama, who always told me that women over 40 should never have hair longer than their chin. Mama has been in Heaven for a few years, so I think I will be safe to let it grow. At worst, I could let it grow all scraggly, completely gray, and wear hippie dresses. Mark might not be too fond of that, so the best I can hope is that some nearsighted young person might see me from behind, think I’m cute, and then gasp when I turn around. 

You live for this kind of humor when you reach a certain age. Cackle, cackle, cackle!

Now, back to blaming Mark. He is a complete GIRL when it comes to clothes and shoes. He does have beautiful shirts and jackets that go oh so well over his massive shoulders, but mercy, those danged shirts take up closet space. And the shoes! The last time we went out of town for the weekend, he suggested we could use one big suitcase for both of us. Uh, no. We would need at least one just for his shoes. And I need room for girl stuff. And my shoes.

He does look quite handsome in all that stuff, even though we look like we are riding in the Clampett’s truck on The Beverly Hillbillies when we travel.

When we moved here, I had a definite picture of how he would leave all his stuff and move into “my” house with all MY stuff. I did acquiesce to his bedroom set. I told myself it had a Hemingway vibe, and I liked that, so that was OK, but there was nothing else. Most of his lamps were nicer than my Wally World ones, but I held on to mine like a toddler grasping a set of car keys. We kept six or seven lamps in the corner of the dining room for several months as a cease-fire, trying to outwait the other person in what lamps would stay and what would go. None of these lamps, sofas, beds, or plates had sentimental value. Mark and I had both gone through breakups, and most of what we had was brand new, some still with the stickers on them. 

Kids don’t want Grandma’s china, old furniture (even if Great Grandma hid there during the War of Northern Aggression), or mementos from your trips to Niagara Falls. Most of what we bought will end up in a landfill. Some places that used to take estate items for charity refuse things like pianos and armoires. The only things that matter are memories passed along to the next generation. 

After my Pop died, my Mama kept his old shoes on the floor beside the bed. She couldn’t bear to move them, even though we often tripped over them. We donated his clothes after a couple of years, but never those shoes. They remained there, even when Mama had dementia and forgot about them. But I didn’t forget. 

Since I was a little girl, Pop had a small skillet permanently placed on the stove. The bottom of the skillet was uneven and looked kind of icky. He wiped rather than scrubbed it and used it daily to cook breakfast. Mama said Pop made the best breakfast in that little pan. 

Mark has his own skillet on our stove. It is never washed, just wiped. The sides are streaked from gas stove flames, and the bottom has perpetual grease. It’s kind of icky. But he makes magnificent meals in that pan.

Mark is constantly thinking about the next meal. Because of this inclination and his influence on my weak flesh, I have gained eight hard pounds in less than a year of marriage. He hasn’t been stuffing food down my gullet like a foodie with a Peking duck, but the man can cook! And he has never met a whole cream sauce or thick-cut bacon that he didn’t like, and no pig, cow, fish, or chicken is safe around him. Vegetables, especially if green and without copious amounts of ranch dressing, are marked safe from the fork of Mark. He will disagree with me because he eats fettuccini alfredo.   It is next to the meat on the plate, so surely it must be a vegetable, right?

His alter ego is Jethro Bodine. He eats the world’s biggest bowl of sugar-frosted flakes with whole milk for breakfast and sometimes two bowls. And as soon as he finishes breakfast, he starts talking about lunch. I used to say, “Wha??? Do we have to eat again?” Now I just eat. 

Back when we were dating, I don’t remember ever being hungry. I guess that’s common in the first lovey-dovey stage. Neither of us could barely look away from each other long enough to see our plates, let alone take the time to eat. We mostly held hands, sometimes both, so it was a little hard to maneuver a fork and knife anyway. We took home a lot of to-go boxes back then. Now, I have the best intentions and ask for a to-go box as soon as I get my meal, but I look down and am surprised and slightly embarrassed by my empty plate. Yep, it’s his fault for sure.

Mark is a solitary chef.  He is not fond of visitors, including me, in his kitchen. If I dare to enter, he suddenly needs something from the drawer behind me. I read a study on this phenomenon, which suggests that seeing someone reminds the brain of a certain task.  It’s fun to experiment, so I move around the kitchen just to be annoying (a fun bonus of marriage!). I asked Mark if I would be in his way if I stood in the middle of the kitchen. He said yes. He is an honest fellow, at least.

An old friend who also married late in life said, “Isn’t it nice to say the word husband?” For most of my life, I thought it strange and a little weak when a woman constantly said “my husband’ rather than using his name. But underneath my shield of ‘I am Woman, Hear Me Roar’ I was secretly jealous. I wanted that kind of love but had no idea what it was and how to get it. I get it now. I find saying ‘my husband’ both surprising and delightful.

I remind myself that Mark and I won’t have 50 years together; we may not have 20. I want to make the best use of whatever time God has given us.

Soon after Mark and I got engaged, I bought one of those little wooden signs popular during the farmhouse decorating phase. It says: I still remember praying for the things I have today. 

And I do.

Our clutter reminds me that God answers prayers.   And He does. And I sure am thankful.

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18: “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”