This Is What It’s Like To Be Married To Me. (A Giant List of Weirdness)

Gee, this woman writes a lot about all her hang-ups with married life, I wonder what her husband’s side of the story sounds like? Fair enough.

Curious how it feels to live with me? You know you are, I mean what else do you have to do today. (wink, wink) Well, surprise, I am also curious how it feels to be married to me too! It’s not often enough that I slip off my shoes and jump into someone else’s, and at least try to feel my way around their world.

I thought this would be an insightful and no doubt humbling exercise to partake in, perhaps regularly as a reminder of how it feels to be married to me. Hint: it’s not a walk in the park, and yet literally I can’t have enough walks in the park.

So, here it goes…what it’s like to be married to me.


You will have clean floors, countertops, toilets, and sinks…a live-in, only slightly obsessive cleaner.

Most likely you will not be greeted if I see you before 8 am, a nod in your general direction if you’re lucky. I try my best to hide from people during these critical recharge hours. (See next observation.)

I will sneak downstairs 3 hours before you to eat my giant bowl of cereal and page through my towering stack of books in total silence. Not sure how I’d feel about marrying an early morning man in another life?

I don’t like the sound of you crunching cornflakes or chewing an apple or eating chicken. I’m terrible and make sure you know I’m perturbed by throwing Teenage Level eye rolls in your direction.

You will receive a steaming hot, homemade egg sandwich every day for lunch with a side of crunchy apple slices. (Which you can only eat in your office alone.) The menu might change once a month. (See next point.)

I don’t mind running my in-house restaurant especially when everyone raves about my boring 5-meal rotation. Address all complaints to upper management, I don’t want to hear them, I’ll break down in tears.

While you eat said lunch, I will take a sip of your coffee without asking, even if we’re in the middle of a flame-throwing fight. It’s a habit I can’t break and one I think keeps a little kindling on our love fire.

I have big feelings about your GPS. I wish you would divorce her. I’m threatened by her gentle tones and sweet counsel. I hate her actually. You listen to everything she says without question, the trust you have with her makes me envious.

The heating bill will be high. I love my garage gym warm and my pajamas fresh from the dryer every night. I guess we could move to Hawaii?

At least the gas bill will be low because my bike is my car.

You will probably smell me before you see me come in from my morning runs. Sorry.

You will have to do your own laundry. Separate dirty clothes hampers are saving us.

You will find your clothes lying in the middle of the staircase or hallway because of my frequent “will he pick it up” experiments.

You will wonder what I do all day and usually be afraid to ask. Understandable.

After 8 pm, you will sense the baton has officially been passed, and I need even more space from you and the kids. Really, all I need is someone to take my hand and tuck me in every night.

I will drape my various bags and belongings on hooks and railings and counters, but you will not be granted this same freedom.

My moods will be up and down. You’ll learn to ride the highs with me and grit your teeth through the lows.

You’ll never understand how I can be reading 10 books at a time, quoting podcasts, and taking courses – but you will appreciate I have endless content to generate conversation if we need it.

Three words: Stacks. Of. Books. They are everywhere and I don’t care. And you cannot move any of them or I will notice.

Going out to dinner and a movie is my least favorite activity. Again, I’m sorry.

I’m more like being married to a puppy, except I’m not as happy. I need lots of walks and stimulation and playing fetch… or I’ll get into mischief.

Take that back. I’m like being married to a hamster or a mouse. I nibble, love to run on a treadmill, don’t mind repetition and routine, and am always scurrying around.

I have a surprising temper that still resembles the angry, 8-year-old me who would throw shoes at her bedroom door.

I will say words that cut you to the core and make you feel like shit. Sometimes I will apologize.

Then, I’ll turn around, smile, and strike up a conversation with a stranger. Ugh. Not proud.

I will never wear sexy underwear. You will have to remind me on several occasions… Please, at least purchase some new cotton granny panties.

The same goes for my jammies. They are not cute. They are threadbare and unmatching. But I allow you this same freedom.

I forget to give hugs, physical touch isn’t often on my radar. Words of encouragement, unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the litterbox, or organizing the garage fill my affection mug to overflowing.

Okay, feel free to diagnose our marital spats and issues from here.

Don’t you think it’s a wonder that relationships can actually work and possibly thrive?

After seeing the concoction of a human that I am- I am amazed we’ve made it 15 years!

Cheers to real married life friends!


Now, it’s your turn.

What would you write on your this-is-what-it’s-like-to-be-married-to-me list? Share one with me!

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