Um, no, actually.

And then, yesterday, it died. If you felt the earth rumble a little bit, that was me voicing my displeasure at the Universe. Not now, not now, NOT NOW! And then I shook my fist at the sky. Real hard. Yeah, I should have figured it was coming, you know, since the plastic attachment braces had begun falling off. Not breaking, really, just… disintegrating and falling off. The Hoover, cleverly, had a lifespan that outlived its warranty by six months to the very day. But compared to not having a vacuum at all, the Hoover was pretty dreamy, even if you did have to empty the canister two or three times per floor just to maintain suction.

“I know this will come as a surprise to you, but I’m kind of a gigantic sucker for singing and/or dancing movies. I will be compelled to see this.”

“I’m shocked.”

“I also may or may not have seen Honey no fewer than six times.”

“So hard to believe.”

By the time I walked in the door, my internal stop watch was ticking off its thirteenth hour and I was telling myself it should be no sweat to fix dinner and then go for a run. It’s part of my standard pep talk about how lots of women have demanding jobs and families and daily runs and if they can do it, why am I struggling so?

I headed for the fridge and started making a pile on the counter. Onion. Chicken sausage. Broccoli.

“I was planning to go over to Ryan’s after my test.” He’d put down his graphing calculator to unload the dishwasher.

“Okay…” I put my hands on the counter and took a long breath.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. You should absolutely decompress. Trig has been stressful. But just so you know, I am officially done coming home after 12 hours on the job and making dinner so you can spend your free time with other people.”

“…”

“I come home. I cook. You eat. You leave. I’m tired of feeling like a pit stop.”

And… cards, meet table.

“I’m sorry. I understand.”

That tempest had been a-brewin’ for some time, but feeling simultaneously resentful and guilty for it is like drawing lines in the sand with a fork. By the time you’ve finished making your mark and step back for a little perspective, those lines are already filling with sand and you’re left unconvinced they were ever really that clear to begin with.

I don’t cook dinner six nights out of seven because I’ve got that joy, joy, joy, joy of cooking down in my heart (where?) down in my heart. No, siree. That spiritual gift went straight to my siblings and left me grabbing for a box of cereal boasting “crunchy bran twigs” and a handful of almonds. The kicker being, I’m also totally satisfied with almonds and bran twigs. I cook dinner because a) he can’t, unless keen microwaving abilities count b) it saves us a lot of money over the alternative, “run out and get something” c) it’s how we exact a measure of control the quality of food we eat – organic produce, no artificial ingredients, humanely raised livestock and c) have you ever met a dude who thought cereal was dinner? I’m not saying my meals are gourmet by any stretch – a green vegetable or two, a lean protein – but it’s still time and effort.

It’s a prison of my own making, of course; I put myself in this role – primarily because it kept us from spending money and kept him out of the Jack in the Box drive thru. But over time, it’s become expected – that it’s simply my part to play. The Saturday afternoon, “What’s for lunch?” makes me feel like… well, there’s hardly any way to express it other than, a utility. Now, because he isn’t skilled in the kitchen, The Dork Lord is perfectly happy to say, “Drop that spatula, woman!” and take me out for dinner, but that’s the kind of thing that got us where we are now and also, hardly in the spirit of sacrifice that’s required to get where we want to go. That’s where my choices get really limited and I get resentful.

I know how simple it looks from the outside – how obvious the solution. If it makes you feel so crappy, don’t do it. But it took me a long time to get there. For someone who preaches against doing things out of obligation, it took me a long, long time to drink my own Kool Aid.

Because dinner is just a symptom of larger issue – one I’d thought we’d reached a breaking point/resolution on a couple of weeks ago. Every night for two weeks, almost without exception, the Boy had been disappearing after dinner to spend time with his friend, Ryan, who’d just lost his mother. I never said a word because I care about Ryan very much and I do not in any way begrudge him the comfort of company. I know very well what grief does when it gets its mitts around silence. But on Friday of the second week, I thought, maybe I could get a little time with my fiance. I don’t know, maybe even see a movie! I texted him with the suggestion.

Maybe after he finished his homework, he said. I told him to forget it. I could accept being second to school, third to Ryan and yes, even fourth to the god damned Dallas Cowboys every now and again, but I’d stopped registering altogether, it seemed – except at meal time. He apologized; he’d never meant to make me feel that way. I knew he hadn’t. That sort of thing is never intentional. And like most of our misunderstandings, it was over before it had really begun.

This is why marriage is hard – because you have to keep working, even when you’d rather say, “Enough. I need a nap.” It’s hard because when you’re not trying, the other person notices – and usually long before you do and then there’s damage to be repaired. It’s hard because forgetting to appreciate each other for the little bits of perfection that you first measured your happiness with is so very easy once you’re accustomed to their perfectness and they become mashed in with the rest of your busy lives.

When he says, “I’m sorry. I understand,” I know he does. He knows, without having to be told, that it’s not about the making of a meal. It’s about being taken for granted. Because I do it, too. Forget. Get busy and lazy about love.Take for granted how good and hard-working he is and how happy he makes me. And ultimately, being understood and loved is why, at the end of a long day, when things are frustrating and my feet are swollen and my shoulders are drawn too tight and I think, “Do I really want to do this for the next fifty years?” the answer will always be, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

Though, I think eventually we’re either going to have to hire a cook, or someone is going to have to learn to love Amy’s frozen burritos.

When he gets home, he’s not ready for bed, so he’ll sit down for a little special time with whatever mega dork science program he’s got saved on the DVR. And then he’ll fall asleep. Because, despite his protestations, that stuff actually is as boring and the rest of us think it is. Or he’s really tired.

Some mornings, I have to wake him and send his silly arse up to bed so I can turn on the kitchen light to make coffee. Some nights, he crawls into bed at 3, waking me up in the process, and well, some of us aren’t gifted with Instant Sleep Syndrome. WE NEED TO BE LULLED. There are plenty of times I don’t get back to sleep at all and that’s about as pretty as it sounds. So…

So I started hiding the sofa cushions.