Susan Senator

But yet to be right myrie wol I fonde.
Now wol I tellen of my [first and only] housbonde.
–Chaucer, The Wyf of Bath, with one little change

An aging woman, an aging marriage! Oh, to have the attitude of the Wyf, who is getting on in years but still will try to be merry. But I even hate the very words “husband” and “wife.” They are old-fashioned, in a dreary, uncharming way. They call to mind slogging away, work without pleasure, dull pasty-faced dumpy people with bent backs and kerchiefs on their heads. I’m also thinking of Woody Allen, in Annie Hall or Manhattan, who said that “love” was not an adequate word for how he felt, so he said, “I leurve you.” He had to make up his own word.

I need a better word for what Ned and I are to each other. We leurve each other. But that’s kind of an ugly word. This word has not been invented yet.

We have been through so much together. (Also, by the way, I don’t like the names “Ned” and “Sue;” to me, we are more like Nicholas and Alexandra, without all the Russian Czarist mishegos, I just like the grand names. Ned and Sue are kind of yellow and blue names. I think of us more as brilliant red or hot pink.)

All of this is because what I feel for Ned is young, beautiful, strong, fun, sexy, and alive. Not-husband. Antihusband. A guy commenting on Ned’s blog post about our DC trip mentioned to him that his “girlfriend looked elegant.” That’s me: Ned’s girlfriend.

I have loved other people, but nothing has ever come close to this. Ned and I grew up together, (pictured here at our Penn graduation, 1984) and we still are growing up together. This is not to say our relationship is perfect, nor is it not boring. I get bored a lot with him, especially when he doesn’t want to take vacations, go out to dinner, or comes home late and then flips open that *&$ laptop because it still isn’t done at work! But usually, I just have to give him the look and he closes it and comes to me. He makes me laugh at really inopportune moments and he puts up with so much of my sh**. He is the one who told me to become a writer, and then, a blogger. He held me through three childbirths, from conception to conclusion. And we went through the autism ringer together, and emerged with ourselves and our Natty intact. Not to mention Max and Ben. (Not to mention? I just did!)

I have Ned wrapped around my little finger, everyone thinks. But what they don’t know is that I am also completely wrapped around his.

1st Time in DC, 4/88; 2nd Time, 7/06