My wife and I live in different worlds.
I suppose on one level, my wife and I have always lived in different worlds. I think that’s how men and women are able to get along.
Eventually, if a man and a woman lived in the same world all of the time, one of them would probably say something like, “I just have to run to the store a minute,” walk out the door and never come back.
Worlds can be small places, and if two people occupy the same one for too long, something has to give.
I was single for a long time, and one of the reasons I was single for so long was because I lived in a world that didn’t exactly have a lot of room.
It was a world of few personal responsibilities. It was a world in which I didn’t have to worry about much other than reminding myself to occasionally take out the trash and open my apartment windows to let the cigar smoke out.
Then, against almost all odds, I got married, and slowly — without me even noticing — my world began to change. I didn’t completely join my wife’s world, and she certainly didn’t join mine. But both of our worlds changed. Granted, my world changed a whole bunch, but in my wife’s defense, her world changed some too.
After all, she did marry a moron.
But even though my wife and I merged our worlds a bit, we still managed to keep them slightly different. My world consists mainly of beer, barbecue and sports, while my wife’s world mainly consists of … well, I’m not exactly sure what her world consists of. I just know that it’s a bigger and different world than mine.
On Thursday, my wife left for work, and I sat down for some serious writing — after I finished the paper, completed the crossword puzzle and searched the internet for St. Louis Cardinals baseball news. About 10 minutes after she first left our house, my wife returned.
“I forgot something,” she said. “I was going to call you to do it for me, but it’s too complicated.”
Then my wife opened a cabinet under our kitchen counter. The cabinet is one I seldom venture into because it’s where my wife keeps some of her special serving trays, bowls and platters.
I don’t know much about serving trays, bowls or platters.
My wife dug through the cabinet until she found what she was after. It was a serving tray that she bought in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, last year at that Pioneer Woman’s store. My wife and our 21-year-old daughter, Emma, love the Pioneer Woman.
My wife explained that a group of ladies is planning another trip to the Pioneer Woman’s store. But she said she didn’t think she could go.
“Too bad,” I said.
My wife said the reason she couldn’t go was because the bus trip had already sold out. Then she said her friend Jana called to say some women had canceled and now there was room on the bus.
“So you’re going with Jana?” I asked.
“No, Jana can’t go now,” my wife said.
“So you’re going anyway?” I asked.
“No, I can’t go,” my wife said in a tone that meant, “You don’t understand a thing I say.”
Then my wife took a picture of the serving tray. She told me she was going to send the picture to someone else she knows who was going on the Pioneer Woman trip.
“I need another one just like this one,” she said.
“OK,” I said in a tone that meant, “OK.”
“It’s for the shower,” my wife said.
“OK,” I said in a tone that meant, “What shower?”
After my wife took the picture, she put the serving tray away and happily returned to her world.
And I happily returned to mine.