This time of year is special for me for a couple of reasons, one of them being the celebration of mothers (and calm down, I have birthed nothing but stories) and another being my wedding anniversary this Saturday! (And cheers to Meghan and Harry the same day!)
It’s been six strange and happy years I’ve spent with this dude named Rustin, who’ve probably read about many times on this blog. You’ve probably also noticed that I generally refer to him as my “spouse,” and rarely ever my “husband.” I’ve addressed him this way in just enough essays that just enough editors have corrected it, so I thought I would tell you why I call him my “spouse.”
Growing up, I knew lots of women who were single for longer than they wanted to be and were, therefore, overjoyed when they finally got married. These women called the men their “huuuuusbands.” They always, ALWAYS dragged out the “u.” It was as if the title “husband” somehow venerated both them and the men they’d chosen and they needed to stress its importance.
The problem was, they had always, ALWAYS chosen horrible men. The men almost always—and we’re talking a good 99.8%—turned out to be controlling, manipulative, unfaithful liars, or some combination of the such.
I felt bad for these women not just because their relationships went to piss, but because they’d set themselves up for failure. By calling them their “huuuuuusbands,” they’d heralded these men and their marriages as if they were the greatest things since sliced bread, as if they were impenetrable, as if their love could never fail.
But they weren’t and it did.
I wasn’t turned off of marriage because of these women (I was turned off of it because of the men, but that’s a separate blog post; actually, that’s the topic of my second memoir), I just learned that I wanted to do things differently.
I decided that I would look at and treat the man I married as the person he was—a completely fallible human who is completely capable of letting me down at some point. I would speak highly of him, but I would also mention his flaws. I would let people know that my marriage was realistic, not some blissful train ride through the Swiss Alps.
I would call him my “spouse.”
“Spouse” is legally correct (so is “husband,” I know, but stay with me) and sounds completely objective. It gives me and those listening to me the space to judge him for who he is, not who I want him to be. It helps me to not jinx things.
“Spouse” reminds me that he is a human—a good human, without a doubt—but a human. A human who has made me and my life better, but still a human. A human I look forward to spending the rest of my days with, this attractive human I enjoy looking at.
You could say I give myself this distance out of fear, and there may be some truth to that. But I know that he and I are happier when I have my feet on the ground, managing my emotions and expectations, even if I call him something that’s kinda weird.
So, happy anniversary to us this weekend! May many more years of weird be to come!
Diary of a Writing Life 