The Ones of Two

Our parents had 10 year olds at our age. They had mortgages, woodgrain station wagons, Encyclopedia Britannicas and memberships to whatever the 1987 equivalent to Costco was.

The husband and I were married at 30. We spent our 20's eating burritos and competitively drinking Jager bombs building our careers. We pursued advanced degrees and became very successful. Alright, the husband did that. But I did graduate past the Jager bomb to the Irish car bomb. Sweet sophistication.

There's such a thing as "single person behavior" (SPB) that surfaces occasionally during marriage. For me, it's a number of productive things, including ensuring no bottle of red in the house goes unopened, staring into a torturous, magnified hand mirror at every clogged pore on my face, watching mind-numbing hours of Real Housewifosity. I suspect the husband spends his in purgatory, the space between real and fantasy sports. This is particularly important when he's holding the "COMMISH" position, which is apparently similar to the person who holds the nuclear codes. We both sit comfortably in single person behavior time when it's granted to us.

Last night, while the husband attended his work holiday party, it was full-on SPB for me. Pore-unclogging mask, bottle of red and a shiny, new Real Housewife episode. The husband stumbled in at the night's end with Chipotle.

Adult burritos. Some things never change.