After fifteen years of cohabitational bliss, my husband recently acknowledged the near-complete integration of our lives. I choked. I laughed. I shook him by the shoulders to make certain that he meant it. He had indeed, purposely, referred to one of the CDs I brought to the relationship as “ours.”
In order to have my reaction make sense, you should know that only within the last two years have I been able to convince him that packing and using the same suitcase, as well as allowing his individually encased toothbrush to co-mingle with mine in the drug bag (we call it the HBA bag when flying) was a more efficient than each of us carrying our own stuff separately. Even with these recent concessions toward couple-hood, he left me ill-prepared for the unsolicited acceptance of any part of my lesser—in both quantity and quality, according to him—music collection. (OK. Given that I think I may still have a Milli Vanilli CD kicking around somewhere, I’m willing to concede the quality issue.) But for me to actually have purchased music worthy of inclusion in my big audiophile’s big audio files is completely unprecedented!
And yet, he said it. And it was big.
He’s no Dummy. The music is more typical of his than mine, but now it’s ours. I tell you, that kind of bold pronouncement makes a girl feel all oogy inside.