Saturday night my husband and I went to an event for his work.

I don’t want to give you the impression that we go out often together.

We don’t.

But on the rare occasions that we do, I am always a little saddened by the experience.

And it starts before we even arrive at the event.

It starts at home.

Often in the bathroom.

As in I am in the bathroom alone putting on my make up or he is in the bathroom alone shaving.

Or I am struggling to hook a necklace behind my neck.

Or he is ironing his pants.

Can a woman put on her own necklace?

Can a man iron his own pants?

Of course.

This isn’t about what we can do.

This is about what “historically” husbands and wives do for one another.

But we don’t.

Nor do we “trip” over one another in the bathroom or darting down the hallway.

We don’t shuffle and sidestep one another playfully.

I can’t tell you the last time my husband said (notice?) “you look great.”

We just get ready.

Separately together.

Like our marriage.

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