“Out of all of the things you’ve handed down to our daughters, genetically, what do you feel the worst about?”
This is an actual question my husband asked me the other day. I looked at him, brow furrowed and mouth agape, wondering if he actually expected me to answer. Half of me thought that I must have heard him wrong, but then the other half of me remembered that this was my husband we were talking about — the man who once told me that rubbing the back of my arm was like an intellectual adventure, because it felt like he was reading braille. Damn you, Keratosis pilaris. In any event, it was a question not uncharacteristic of a one Patrick Sullivan and a completely acceptable query, I was told, because he already had something specific in mind. He then spent the next 6 minutes showing me pictures of Frida and Anthony Davis.
Unibrows aside, if I had to answer honestly, I’d probably say my tendency to wear my emotions on my sleeve. Turns out, with me, you really can judge a book by its cover, and sometimes that cover is housing a psychological thriller. You could look at it as a good thing — after all, what you see is what you get — but in the midst of an argument, I think my husband would probably characterize it a bit differently. I mean sure, when Adele does it, it’s art, but you try calling someone a thousand times, and suddenly you’re the town stalker. Don’t piss me off if you want uninterrupted use of your phone; that’s what I always say.
