Sometimes I catch myself feeling frustrated with my partner. In moments of irritation, like when I stumble over his shoes in the hallway or struggle to sleep through his erratic snoring, I find myself muttering under my breath that I can’t stand him. If only his snoring were more predictable, I think I could actually drift off to sleep.
As we sit across from each other at dinner, I can’t help but reflect on how I missed the peculiar sounds he makes while eating during our dating days. Did he put in more effort to impress me back then? Can’t he hear the noise he’s making? On days when we argue, I fantasize about what it might be like to live alone, a life where my opinions reign supreme—a life free from finding his receipts scattered around or turning the car around because he forgot his wallet once again. I envision a world where I wouldn’t need to compromise or wait for him or even cook.
I ponder whether I might have been happier with a different kind of partner—one who is aware of their habits, picks up after themselves, and notices the messes around them. I think of that neat freak I dated in college and wonder if I’d be better off had I chosen him. In my imagination, my home would be spotless, and my ears would be at peace.
But here I am, in this reality with the man I chose. Occasionally, I catch him gazing at me, and I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance. “What’s with the stare?” I ask. “You’re stunning,” he replies. I shrug, pretending his compliment doesn’t warm my heart.
As I prepare for bed, I eye myself in the mirror with disdain. Stepping on the scale, I sigh. “Stop it, you’re perfect just as you are,” he says around his toothbrush, leaving toothpaste splatters on the counter.
When I snack on pistachios, I have this peculiar ritual: I lick the salt off, crack the shell with my teeth, and then savor more. It’s a messy and crude way to eat. I even let out loud belches, rating them on a scale of 1 to 10 based on their volume and length. I may stink up the bathroom, leave my period underwear soaking in the sink, and sometimes go days without showering, my hair getting greasy. I despise bras, so I never wear one at home; my body is no longer what it used to be.
Yet, my partner continuously praises me, calling my body perfect. He tells me I’m a fantastic mom, a great cook, and has faith in my writing talent (which I don’t consider remarkable). He makes me feel special in a world filled with billions, focusing on my strengths while remaining blissfully unaware of my flaws. Why can’t he see them?
Some husbands critique their wives on their appearance or habits, but mine is entirely accepting, unable to stay upset for long. I doubt he even knows how to hold a grudge.
I could find someone who chews politely, who remembers to pick up his socks, or who doesn’t snore at all, but I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who loves so selflessly as my partner does. Even if I searched forever, I wouldn’t find someone who would love me as I am, with all my imperfections.
He often tells me he’s the lucky one, feeling undeserving of me. But he has it all wrong. He could have loved anyone, someone less bothered by the little things. Yet somehow, he chose me, day after day, as effortlessly as breathing. He is not the fortunate one.
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In summary, while my partner may believe he’s lucky to have me, the truth is that his unwavering love and acceptance make him the real treasure in my life.