I received a challenge this week to write about my husband.
"But I can't write about Geoff," I said. "He's too perfect. I don't want women chasing him all over town."
My challenger (who knows Geoff) gave me a cynical look.
"I'm sure he has a quirk or two you could write about," said Ric.
And that's when I sinned. A sin of omission.
"Nope," I said. "He's perfect."
Accidentally omitting "-ly weird."
I arrived home shortly after my conversation with Ric and was greeted at the door by my silver-haired, dignified husband. In boxer shorts. And an "Underdog" T-shirt. He was holding a plastic mixing spoon like a microphone and singing, "Say goodbye to conventional ways. You can't escape the hours, you lose track of the days. Something, something, something. Everybody wants you."
OK, so maybe Geoff does have a few qualities some might view as weird, but his quirks and mine align rather nicely. I have an affinity for unique perspectives (his specialty), and enjoy knowing that life with him will never be dull. He's endlessly entertaining, even when deeply asleep.
A little over a year ago, Geoff began to walk in his sleep. It doesn't happen that often (maybe once a month) and while I'm not sure if there's a connection, each episode has occurred on a full moon. So in tune is my man with nature that he, like the tide, is controlled by the moon.
After each sleepwalking incident, he has little or no recollection of having been up, but his nighttime meanderings aren't quiet at all. I often wake to hear cabinets being open and shut, things banging together, the sound of feet clomping up and down squeaky stairs. Nor are Geoff's full-moon fooleries evidence-free. My Nightstalker has a habit of leaving doors open and of viewing bathmats as a suitable bed.
For a while, Geoff was alarmed by his increasingly peculiar actions during his nocturnal strolls. And for that, daughter Celeste and I share some blame. Rather than simply leaving doors open and sleeping on bathmats, we decided it would be fun to make him believe he stacked cans in his sleep. We'd get up early and build big towers of canned peas and creamed corn, labels neatly aligned, smack-dab in the center of our kitchen floor.