Husband and I have a unique relationship.

We see each other in spurts. He’s a commercial pilot, so he’s often home for 2-5 days and then gone for 2-5 days. It’s never consistent, though, and some weeks he’ll be home every other day.

 

Because we can’t count on every weeknight or weekend together, we must coordinate appointments, outings, date nights, sex, arguments, everything.

 

Lots of wives consider me lucky because I have so much alone time at my apartment.

 

“What I wouldn’t give for one night alone in my bed,” they sigh.

They are correct. I am very lucky. I’m lucky because I love being alone. As an introvert, my happiness is proportionate to the amount of alone time I get. To a point, of course, but that point is so teeny tiny and far away that I can’t remember the last time I reached for human interaction.

 

While Husband’s guaranteed absence alleviates us both when we’re tired of each other’s faces, it also imposes strain onto our relationship.

 

Every time he comes home, it’s like starting over.

 

Hello! How was your trip? What’d you do while I was away? We need to pay this bill. Can I stay at my mom’s this weekend? The guys are coming over. Did you miss me? *kiss*hug*kiss*fight*

 

Husband and I are constantly encountering each other anew. We’ve acclimated to it, but it took a LONG time.

 

He once told me he hates leaving to fly because he feels like he disappears from my life.

It’s literally true. Which is why he feels that way.

He comes home and I tell him about all the puzzles I finished with my mom and the Netflix shows I watched and the book club meetings I went to. And he is just baffled that life goes on for me.

“It’s like you have this whole other life without me!” he whines, exasperated.

 

This is a tough spot for me. Do I not live my life while he’s gone? (No.) Do I text him incessantly and keep him constantly up-to-date on my latest activities? (No.)

And I think it’s perfectly natural for him to wish he had a “pause” button for everyone back home while he is away. It’s just not possible (poor Husband).

 

But, hey, he chose this life!

And now, he’s doing something BIG.

Something WAY different from anything he’s ever done.

 

Something that will take him away from me for SIX MONTHS.

 

He joined the National Guard, and he’s leaving for boot camp in 11 days.

 

His best friend (and one of mine, too, FYI) left in February for boot camp. I’m going to call Husband’s/my BFF Big Wheel because that’s how he referred to himself in his Best Man speech at our wedding. He said that the three of us (Husband, Big Wheel, and I) represent a three-wheeled tricycle, and Big Wheel considers himself the front wheel. I LOVE it. Big Wheel is seriously the best. And he’s single! Is anyone interested in a boot-camp-imprisoned, ultra-sweet, heart-wide-open-for-love, slightly argumentative, very cute and VERY TALL soldier? Big Wheel is available.

I think. The current status of his fickle pre-boot-camp relationship is unclear to all of us (I think it’s unclear to Big Wheel, too).

But he’s a real catch!

I will stop selling him on the internet, now.

 

I RECEIVED MY FIRST LETTER FROM HIM YESTERDAY!!!!!!

 

I was SO excited.  I’ve written him three times since he’s been gone, and in each letter I beg him to write me back. Because I’m needy and demanding.

I also draw him crappy pictures of ill-shaded cubes and windy tree vines.

I also tell him that there’s nothing new on Netflix right now so he’s not missing anything.

 

SO BIG WHEEL’S LETTER

 

Ugh, it just broke my heart. Honestly, Big Wheel sounds miserable. Which makes sense! He plucked himself right out of his hometown and tossed himself states away from all of his friends and family and my homemade cookies (he mentioned these in the letter).

 

In his letter, Big Wheel swore a LOT.

And I think he was a little tired or rushed when he wrote it.

Because he wrote, and I quote, “Brooke, I’m sorry my grammar is fuck.”

I’m sorry anything is fuck, to be honest. But I appreciate his concern. Big Wheel knows I love me some good grammar.

 

You know, lots of people preface their virtual/written conversations with me by apologizing in advance for grammatical mistakes. This makes me a little sad. I don’t want people to feel like they have to “perform” around me. Though I expect my BFF to STOP typing “your” when she means “you’re” because I will NEVER stop judging her for this. Get it together, you beautiful, supermodel redhead!

 

I just love redheads. And Big Wheel.

 

And I miss him and he sounds so lonely. I consulted my mother on the guilt and depression his letter stirred in my heart. She said “Keep writing him!” She is always right, that woman. And she knows everything. My mom has an old soul, which makes her infinitely cool and poised at all times. Old souls have lived other lives before this one, you know. That’s what makes them so even-keeled and inexplicably wise and otherworldly.

 

So, I wrote Big Wheel back. And I told him all the usual things I tell him. And I assured him that, because I’m on somewhat of a health kick, he’s not missing out on any delicious cookies since I’m not baking any. *pout*

I also rambled on about the day’s happenings and how Husband shouted at me, “I’m genuinely concerned to leave you behind!” (When he leaves for boot camp, he meant.)

Why would Husband exclaim his concern for my well-being when I’m clearly so competent and put-together?

 

Well, because I made an ass of myself at the perfect moment for me to make a very cool person of myself in front of Husband.

 

Husband and I were removing large chunks of our sofa sectional from our apartment living room. Sister and Sister’s Husband gifted Husband and I their old futon. I LOVE NEW FUTON. It truly classed the whole apartment right up.

 

Anyway, Husband and I were walking the pie-shaped piece of our old sectional toward the door, and for some ungodly reason it kept slipping out of my hands. He was the lead, and I was dropping, dropping, dropping it. And I started laughing because it was so ridiculous how much I was dropping that pie sofa.

There we were, wedged in the door of our apartment, and I am doubled over in laughter because I have no CLUE how he’s managing to grip this thing with his palms. It was like I had just doused my hands in silk powder and it was SLIP! SLIP! SLIP!

Poor Husband is standing there, holding up his end just fine, watching me as I giggle and drop, giggle and drop, like a total maniac.

 

I assure you that lack of strength had nothing to do with it!

 

There I was, hands on my knees, squealing at him through bubbles of laughter, “HOW, just HOW are you holding onto this thing?!”

Husband starts to drag the piece on his own toward the door, ignoring my ridiculous giggling.

 

“No wait, wait wait.” *Scoops up own side of pie sofa*

Husband takes a step backward.

*Drops side of pie sofa.*

*Starts laughing hysterically*

*Picks up own side of pie sofa again*

*Laughing too hard to hold pie sofa and drops it*

 

“NO, seriously,” LAUGHLAUGHLAUGH, “how are you carrying that?”

“Just grab onto it!”

*grabs and promptly drops side again*

“Just grab the couch!”

*grabbed couch sloowwwwly slips out of hands and thumps onto floor*

 

“I just don’t understand what you’re doing over there to keep hold on this thing!” *giggle giggle giggle*

“Just – what is WRONG with you?! Just grab onto it like a normal person!”

“I am! It’s just so slippery!” LAUGHLAUGHLAUGH. “I seriously don’t understand.”

“Oh my god, just grab the bottom part! See, look!” Husband gestures with a shoulder shrug to the underside of the sofa.

*Brooke grabs wrong part and drops sofa again*

*Brooke now has tears in her eyes from crazed laughter*

“No, look!” Husband drops his side to demonstrate. He snakes his hand under the very bottom part of the sofa and lifts up.

*Brooke glances down with huge grin and mimics Husband’s moves*

 

Brooke lifts her side of the sofa and successfully maintains her grasp!

 

Brooke has to squeeze her stomach and her face to prevent laughter from pouring out because did you realize? It is impossible to carry a sofa and laugh hysterically at the same time. Laughter turns limbs into noodles.

 

I thought I had redeemed myself until we got outside to the open tailgate of his truck and I FELL INTO THE GRASS AND ALMOST SPRAINED MY ANKLE.

 

There I am, crouched in a Twister-esque position on the rain-drenched grass, laughing like a hyena.

 

Husband’s eyes were WIDE and he just stares at me like a disbelieving dragon.

 

“What is wr-are you DRUNK or something?!” Husband shouts, still holding up his end of the sofa.

 

 

Sober as a bird, I was. And I finally helped him heave that pie couch into the truck. And that’s when he said he was fearful to leave me behind to fend for myself. I don’t know why he’s so concerned.

 

I do this thing when I’m tired where I start giggling and can’t stop.

That was the telltale sign that it was “time for bed” when I was a child, according to Parents.

 

Where was I going with this story?

 

OH THE LETTER TO BIG WHEEL

 

So I put that atrocious story in the letter. And I was giggling while I was writing it in there. And you better believe I started giggling just now when I wrote it down for you. Because you’ve got nothing better to do than read moronic stories about my lunacy, right?

Apparently, neither does Big Wheel.

He’s inadvertently succumbing to the ridiculous trivialities of my everyday life whenever he opens a letter. I’m sure he can’t WAIT to open them. If not for the stories, for the beautiful drawings of stick birds I have to explain with arrows and tiny writing.

 

 

Husband will get the same kinds of letters! And he will love them just as much.

 

Just this morning, he was reading Big Wheel’s letter, and he put it down and said, “Ugh, it’s too long, I’m tired of reading.”

And I said, all ’50s housewife desperate, with a kitchen towel or something equally symbolically domesticated in my paws, “But you’re going to read my super long letters to you all the way through, right?” *big doe eyes*

 

*Pause* “Of course.” Disappears into the bedroom.

 

Hmm.

He had better.

I’m going to leave little traces and clues throughout the novels letters I send him that will REVEAL whether he’s reading them through! Of course, I can’t tell you those traces and clues NOW, because Husband reads this blog (when I yell at him to read my blog).

 

This post is all over the place. I am quite an all-over-the-place person. Don’t let the color scheme of my blog fool you. It took me FOREVER to coordinate it. And honestly, if you asked Sister, it probably doesn’t match.

 

Boop!

 

I suppose I’ll tie this all together now, for those of you that are still hanging around reading these surely superfluous words.

 

Husband has wanderlust. And it brings him all over the world. Sometimes, it pulls him away from me.

 

And the distance introduces fresh bouts of difficulty into our relationship each time. But heaven knows I introduce enough difficulty on my own. Honestly, though, I think it makes us stronger. We constantly have to acclimate to how frequently we see each other.

At least I tell myself (and Husband) that it makes us stronger. Because why not? We convince ourselves of our own reality, so I’m sure as heck going to manipulate mine in a good way!

 

Eleven days. Gosh, I miss him already. Are you going to entertain me while he is gone? I am going to need your love. And your patience as I regale you with endless tales of my lunacy.

Husband has wanderlust.
And I have him.
And he has me, terrible-couch-gripping skills and incessant babbling in all.

 

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