My man is so good at things I’m not good at.
He can handle stress like an iron man, while I panic and flop around like a beached fish.
He knows what to do when political things invade our lives, and I just want to shout.
He has a GPS inside his brain; but I need directions from Wal-Mart. And then I lock myself out of my car and he has to be there, after all. Not proud. Just sayin’.
He is strong, but I am weak. Really. In my body.
He is self-disciplined, but I am wild and easy to fly off the handle.
He knows how to be quick to listen and slow to speak, but I only know that we SHOULD do those things.
He can light a fire with one match, but it takes me at least two.
He is tidy, but I am messy. But I do clean up my messes eventually while he is patiently waiting for me to learn tidiness. After 44 years of marriage.
He speaks when he has thought of something to say worth hearing, but I speak because I have had a thought. Any thought.
When he diets, he loses weight: No comment.
The above list could go on and on.
When it comes to throw-up at 2:00 a.m., I’m better than he is. I know what to do and it doesn’t really bother me to do it. He sleeps. I am so thankful he sleeps, because if he were awake, he would panic.
Actually, all the hidden support work is easier for me.
Dirty dishes drive him up a wall; no prob for me.
Dropped and broken things raise his hackles; they’re my specialty.
Company coming and the house is wrecked; just get outa the way, Dear.
And on and on.
I love being what my man lacks, what he needs, a helper suitable for him.