Hitched

I've been married longer than I've done anything else except breathe.

With all this interactive relationship experience, one might expect that I know all there is to know about men.

I know a man will sit silently in the same room with a woman and think they had an evening together because they both watched the same television program.

I know it’s risky business to ask a man what he’s thinking at any given moment because odds favor thoughts about pickup trucks and what’s for dinner over anything apt to be considered even remotely romantic.

I know only a man would buy something broken and think he's gotten a good deal.

At least I'm not married to a writer.

A writer will buy 12 notebooks only to conclude each is more precious than the last and none is really right for the project at hand.

Immobile, a writer can stare into space for long periods of time, and when asked what she’s doing, will reply, “working.”

A writer can detect differences in pencil lead smoothness by hand; a problem others need an electron microscope to resolve.

A man married to a writer fits the textbook definition of a saint.