Why I Love My Wife

Three weeks ago, I ate at a three-star Michelin restaurant and won the Hamilton lottery.  That was a day so good I woke up this morning and went, “Wow, that really happened.”
I did not drag my wife into that experience.
I’m still amazed that I did not drag my wife into that experience.
I am a man of bizarre passions, and I have long grown used to telling people “Hey, I want a beehive!” and having them go, “…what? Why?” I’ve dated a lot of women where I jollied them into liking what I did.
Which isn’t really me – it’s just what happens in relationships.  I know that feeling of sitting and listening to a Tori Amos album and thinking this is all right, but the second I stopped dating my ex-fiancee I never put on another Tori Amos album on again.
That relationship-dependent fandom hovers between coercion and true appreciation, but doesn’t deepen into love; you’ll go with this TV show or movie or music or hobby because your partner’s really into it, and it’s got enough stuff you enjoy that you’re willing to tag along, but the relationship-dependent fandom is a fire that needs constant stoking.
And I kept expecting that with Hamilton, my crazy obsession, my wife would just Tori Amos out the moment I was out of the room.
Except when Amal held a sing-along at ConFusion and I had to go do some Author Stuff, Gini stayed and sung the entire first act, leaving because the second act was “depressing.”  (It is.)
And she was more thrilled than I was when we won the lottery.
And she and I discussed Hamilton for hours on the way back in the car.
And the three-star Michelin restaurant, I’d feel bad about dropping a rent’s worth of cash on a single meal, except that when I tell stories about it she jumps in excitedly to tell about it.
What I love about my wife is that there’s not a lot of Tori Amosing in this relationship.  When my wife jumps on board a fandom with me, she’s every bit the squeeing goon that I am.  And we do have our separate ways – she doesn’t really get videogames, I don’t get gardening – but when we connect, her fandom is often fiercer than mine.
It’s silly, and sometimes inconvenient.  (Especially when I wind up dragging her into my love of a truly schlock show like Ink Masters, and then Gini doesn’t have the time to watch it with me.)
But what we got?  It’s real.  And that’s why the Hamilton and Eleven Madison Park was one of the best days: we were in it together.
I love that. And I love her.