That being said, I hate when people ask me "So how's married life?!" or "Sooooooo... how's married life!" or "And how is married life, Sades?"
Because in all reality, life is the same. I have the same schedule, in the same apartment, with the same job, and the same workout regime. The only difference is that I've inherited a roommate whom I enjoy naked breakfasts with.
So, friends, acquaintances, and small-talkers - let's put to death the tired and shallow "So how's married life?!" and bring to the table a new utterance for inquiring about what it's like to be married:
"So what's it like to share an 800sq ft. apartment with Gerry?"
Oh! So kind of you to ask. Here, I'll tell you.
- Gerry is physically incapable of closing things. Doors, cabinets, shower curtains. He is, however, strikingly good at putting the seat/lid down.
- Gerry sleeps diagonally across the entire bed. So, that's awesome.
- Gerry fears the tupperware bin. And he fears he might die should he attempt to put things away in an orderly manner.
- Gerry's snuggling demands are just shy of being considered snugglerape.
- Gerry greets his day by yelling. Loudly. Oh, and slamming things. Loudly.
- You think my tumblehairs are ubiquitous? Gerry's beard hair. Everywhere. All the time.
- Gerry's nightly ritual includes a 15 minute shirtless posing sesh in front of the mirror.
- Gerry keeps his toenails at nothing shorter than razor sharp length. They're like little spears being plunged into my calves during the aforementioned snugglerape.
- Eggs: it's what's for breakfast. And dinner. 5 nights a week.
- Gerry's really great at over-the-shoulder cooking. "You making eggplant parm? Do you know what you're doing? You have big shoes to fill... my grandpa's eggplant parm was phenomenal. What are you doing? Why are you doing that?"
- Gerry's sporadic sock piles.
- The 20 minutes before a meal... You won't like him when he's Hangry.
- Gerry has a fierce handicap when it comes to laundry. "Babe, I don't know where any of this goes so I'm gonna leave it on the bed." Later, he will windmill the bed (Windmilling: whirl your arms round and round like an epileptic rotational energy machine) so that all of my clean, folded clothes are now in landmines on the floor.
But then, he puts on a suit and makes this face and I think, "It's okay. It's okay. He will help me make beautiful, athletic children."
|I mean, look at him. It's okay, you can look.|
Also, we've given up on the foodscapades. Hooray for New Year's Resolutions! #whomp