Call me an optimist. Call me a dreamer. Call me a hopeless romantic. But I think that a husband and wife can be not only life partners and passionate lovers but best friends, too.
When I eventually find the One, I want us to do everything together: trips to Costco, deep conversations about life, money management, meditation retreats, breeding ferrets as a side hustle, ten-hour tantric-sex sessions, performing as a sketch-comedy duo, hang gliding in Uzbekistan, and being wacky best buds who have hilarious squirt-gun fights in our back yard!
If you want a life partner who only fulfills two hundred or three hundred of your 45,730 emotional needs, go right ahead. I won’t stop you. But I’ll never settle for something that limited.
And you know who will understand that better than anyone? My wife.
That’s because my wife won’t be just my wife, she’ll also be my therapist. She’ll see my inner child. She’ll know my enneagram. She’ll pierce the façade of my social mask and say things like “Babe, you’re a little off today, what’s up?,” “Tell me about your father. Do you fear that you’ve inherited his flaws?,” and “Lay down on the couch and recount your dreams while I take notes in my Husband Journal.”
Marriage is about giving your partner everything that they need. All of it. No exceptions! That’s why I want my wife to prepare me for all of life’s battles.
Literally, she’ll be my blacksmith.
Picture this: I come home after a hard day at the office. I’m so tired.
“Where’s my beautiful wife?” I shout. In between anvil clangs, she shouts back, “Can’t talk now, babe, I’m in the forge!”
My wife’s determined face is dripping sweat from the thousand-degree furnace as her powerful hands grip the hammer and pound it relentlessly against a hulking steel bar.
She’s making me an incredible sword. Correction: another incredible sword. To go with my chain mail, of course.
Owing to all that hammer work, my wife will have the impressive physique of a Romanian powerlifter. She can bench-press two hundred and seventy-five pounds.
God, she’s so sexy.
Thirty minutes later, she emerges from the forge, hands me a glimmering broadsword, and French-kisses me on the mouth.
“Wow,” I say.
“I call it Excalibur II,” she says.
“Stunning,” I say, referring to her and to the sword.
“Ready to have some fun?” she asks and winks.
We both know what that means. Time to go out on our huge balcony that she built, hold hands, and gaze at the sky in wonder.
You see, my wife is also my astrophysicist. She teaches me about the universe, and I teach her about what it means to love me.
“Hey, babe. What are quasars?” I ask her while her super-strong blacksmith fingers massage my sore shoulders.
“Babe, they are extremely luminous galactic cores that contain supermassive black holes,” she explains with scientific accuracy and saintly patience.
“Black holes are so cool, babe!” I shout while I swing my new sword.
“They are cool,” she agrees. Then she tells me a bunch of really neat black-hole stuff that she knows because she wrote a best-selling book about black holes.
For example: Once you enter a black hole, you can never escape. I think that’s pretty interesting.
“How about Thai for dinner, hon?” my wife, the astrophysics Ph.D. and master chef, asks me.
“Fajitas!” I say with a sword thrust.
Here’s the thing: I’m not just my wife’s lover and best friend—I’m also her sous chef. I’m her everything.
“Fajitas again?” my wife asks.
“What’s wrong with fajitas every night?” I ask my wife while spinning my sword in a super-sick parrying move.
“Ah, fajitas are fine,” my wife agrees. “Why don’t you start mashing the avocados. I’ll be in there in a sec,” she says with a hint of something I don’t understand.
“Sure. Hey, how big is space, my love?” I ask my insanely gorgeous wife, who, by the way, is also the co-host of my podcast, “Epic Sword Battles!”
My wife is quiet for a moment, then says, “Babe, space is so big that you can scarcely comprehend it.”
Isn’t that something?
I think love is like the universe: it should have no limits that we know of—and lots of fajitas! ♦