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Every once in a while, I descend into magical thinking, trying to figure out how romantic relationships should work. Then reality sets in, and I realise that life’s greatest difficulties may never be fully resolved. Strangely, that feels okay.
ST squeaks to get my attention in public. I’m not a pet. He forgets I have a name. I could whistle to call him back, but I can’t whistle. So he wins this time. What does one do with a husband like that? Love him back? Seems reckless.
I seldom compliment ST, but when I do, he turns into a tireless kitchen maestro. A simple praise for his crispy fried crabsticks spurred him to make pumpkin rice, complete with fried shallots. A bowl of bite-sized oranges landed on my desk. The power of words is astounding.
My compliments are sincere – reserved for the most deserving. Gratitude, expressed through words and actions, creates a ripple effect. The room brightens, hearts feel lighter. Praising someone out loud is an act of love. Kindness is uplifting, producing a Butterfly Effect – small gestures leading to far-reaching results. Sometimes, love needs sweetening with encouraging words.ST and I both have nightmares about work, but waking up reminds us we retired over a decade ago. Now, we’re just hungry for sleep. But we manage. That’s what we do.
I promise not to yearn for the impossible – especially when I look in the mirror. I must learn to live frugally. Just as I think this, ST calls from the kitchen, “Did you throw away the bread that expired today?”Frugality is second nature to ST, a wizard at saving money. The year started with minor glitches – a power outage that disabled our autogate, a mouth ulcer that lingered for two weeks, and WiFi that suffered fainting spells. But by Chinese New Year, everything normalised, and we celebrated with vibrant shouts of “HUAT-ah! HENG-ah!”
One February morning, our breakfast conversation drifted to Chap Goh Meh, the fifteenth day of CNY.
ST was amused that the tradition of throwing oranges into rivers for luck in romance still exists. “They should write their mobile numbers on the oranges for easy contact,” he quipped.
Sometimes, when he runs out of words or ideas, our conversations veer into the inane. He has a knack for turning mundane moments into laughter.
Once, a morsel of food clung above his upper lip as he spoke animatedly. Wickedly, I said nothing, giggling while he assumed I was enjoying the story.I’m sharpening my wifely wiles. Cracking the marriage code is tough, but using humour to get through the day is easier.
Every now and then, our decades-old house presents maintenance challenges, and ST, the designated handyman, takes charge. Though a rickety septuagenarian, he gets the job done.
A damp patch appeared on the dressing room ceiling. ST prepared to inspect the attic, hauling a heavy ladder, donning a headlamp and mask. Before climbing up, he muttered, “Someone has to suffer so others can live better.” I grinned.
Being an old husband is both wonderful and terrible. Something in you wants to be strong and young again, yet you cherish the joy of waking up at your leisure. The zigzag shifts of life don’t dull the thrill of being alive.
The three Ss – seventy, surviving, and swinging – are encouraging. The key to longevity lies in the quality of daily living. There’s something awe-inspiring about two oldies still outwitting each other with playful provocation and home-churned hilarity. I think it’s called G.O.T. – growing old together.
