“Give her some water,” Zeb advised.
“I HAVE.”
“Try some juice.”
“Really Zeb? I’ve tried everything. That’s why I need Popsicles.” I was starting to get pretty pissed.
“I just don’t think she needs sugar.” He said, again.
“Noted. Now go to the store and get Popsicles. Please.” I said ‘please’ out loud but in my head, I was screaming, “YOU SOB!”
He was as mad as all get out, but he went to the store — victory was mine! Sadie would be hydrated! All was well with the world…until he walked in the door carrying a box of 200 Otter Pops that weren’t even frozen.
“Is this really happening?!” I yelled, “What the hell? POPSICLES, Zeb! Why is that so hard?”
“These ARE Popsicles!” He yelled back.
“No they aren’t! They’ll be Popsicles in 36-48 hours but they are most certainly NOT Popsicles right now! Why didn’t you get frozen ones?”
He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I didn’t know you could buy them that way.”
“Are you sure that’s how you want to play this? Do you really want me to believe you’re that stupid?” I asked.
I don’t know that I’ve ever been so completely filled with rage. Over freaking Popsicles.
But that’s the way it is with me and Zeb — we are passionate and stubborn. Sometimes I think I might see myself on an episode of Dateline, Josh Mankiewicz strolling down our street as a camera pans wide and says, “In the small town of Greenwood, Mississippi, everything looked perfect for Zeb and Robin O’Bryant…until one day, in a fit of rage, Robin did the unthinkable…”
But then, in a split second, Zeb is there with eyes the exact same amber brown as sunshine filtered through a beer bottle. He wraps his arms around me while I’m standing at the stove cooking dinner. He kisses my neck and his beard tickles my skin, “Sorry,” he whispers. And I melt.
Zeb isn’t my best friend. Depending on the movie I want to see, I’ll ditch him in a second for my girlfriends. But when things gets real, I don’t care if anyone is standing with me but him. He’s my partner, my equal and without a doubt, my better half. Zeb is the peanut butter to my jelly, the yin to my yang, the spiritual Xanax to my eight-ball of coke.
I’m also going to need all of you people who say, “Thanks for the best 15 years of my life!” to stand in a separate corner and await your own punishment, because marriage isn’t easy, and it most certainly isn’t all happy.
I’d rather say:
“I really appreciate you driving me to therapy every week.”
“Thanks for not leaving me when I act like a lunatic.”
“Thanks for acting like you thought I was sexy for the last 16 years even though I’ve gained and lost hundreds of pounds and my stretch marks look like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains.”
I have lots of friends, hell, I even have lots of best friends…but there is and will always be, only one Zeb. He’s my husband and that’s enough.
About the Author: Robin O’Bryant is the The New Times best-selling author of Ketchup is a Vegetable and Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves. You can follow her on FaceBook as Robin O’Bryant or Twitter.
