When she asks me to get her a glass of water, or a pillow, or some rice cakes, or a cat, or an omelet made from the eggs of the dodo — which, yes, has been extinct since the 17th century but that shouldn’t hinder my efforts and please make certain that the eggs are fresh — I will sigh.
When she asks me to turn on the lights, or turn off the lights, or open the curtains, or close the curtains, or turn down the TV, or turn up the TV, or adjust the TV volume to some mythical setting such that the shows will be loud and the commercials will be quiet — even though this flies in the face of everything the entire television industry is trying to do GOD DAMN THEM ALL — I will grumble.
When she asks me to tuck the blanket under her feet, or take the blanket off of her feet, or pull the blanket off my feet and onto her feet, or knit a blanket out of the clothes that I am currently wearing but please make certain that the blanket contains no skungy underwear bits thank you very much and by the way where is my omelet? — I will complain.
But then she will tell me that she loves me. And she will tell me that she is the luckiest woman in the world. And she will tell me that she is so happy to have me in her life. And she will tell me that I am the greatest husband in the history of husbands and I make every day with her better by my very existence. And she will smile.
And then I stop my sighing. And my grumbling. And my complaining.
And then I do her bidding.