Boring.

Ugh, I so don’t want to go here. I met my husband at age 18. He has been my constant companion for the subsequent 21 years and counting. In 21 years I have not flirted, be-friended, or slept with another man (but for that summer in college when we were Ross&Rachel-style “on a break,” except that doesn’t count because the other “man” was really a boy.) This is both admirable and boring. Admirable because sustaining a marriage is really fucking hard. Boring for all the obvious reasons.

My husband and I like to sum up our differences – he is ENTP and I am ISFJ. In an off-the-charts way. He is completely non-judgmental. He is totally self-confident. He is loyal, dependable, competent. He can do many things that I cannot. He functions better in the world than I do. He can be a complete and utter prick.

In college, our roommates, classmates were befuddled. He was a WASPy, third-generation alumni legacy, all-male prep school graduate, Nth generation knee-jerk Republican, and I was a first generation American, first generation college attendee, Women’s Studies concentrator, with a shady past and wildly fluctuating mood swings.

Years later, we still have nothing in common. We both can sit on the beach for hours. We both curse in front of our children. That’s really about it. I’m not kidding.

All I know is that from the start we’ve been family and we will always be together, despite my regular divorce fantasies. A lot of times I prefer living in my fantasy world, and that’s OK, but he’s not usually a resident there.

That’s all I have to say for now. Because reading about married peoples’ lives, unless it includes explicit sex or perhaps episodes of verbal or physical abuse, is boring, you can find better entertainment on Lifetime television, and I am not going to talk about sex right now and, as my husband likes to say, “There’s not enough domestic violence in our house.”