I’ll be working on my book today. I say working because that is what it is. There was a book published in the seventies called “The Joy of Sex”. Now that’s understandable. But if there’s one called “The Joy of Writing” the author is obviously in need of serious therapy.
As I sit here writing this blog I can’t help but think of my wife. I drove her to town this morning and watched her disappear into the building where she works. She is holding off her retirement to help keep our finances intact while I sit here at home typing on this computer. I sometimes feel a bit guilty: her working so hard and me having the freedom to get up, roam around the house, and even flake out watching a movie instead of writing. (Don’t tell her I do that last one!)
Her life is more structured than mine, making her get up every morning, even though she’s tired, and spend the day at work.
We have been friends nearly all our lives. I’ve known her for 60 of my 65 years. It’s probably that friendship that has saved our marriage. I’ve not always been the best of husbands but she has stuck with me. She’s a tough, little Icelandic gal with a brave and loyal heart. I don’t deserve her. That’s why I do the dishes, clean the house, and feed her; hopefully all that will give her a reason to keep me around.
Kidding aside, I appreciate all she is doing for me, for us.
Love you, babe.