A friend of mine suggested I see a dermatologist for my itchy back.
Why would I do that when I have a perfectly good husband and a drawer filled with forks, knives, and scissors?
As soon as we get into bed at night, I take off my top, hold out one of each, and say, “Pick one.”
Sure it’s dangerous to ask someone to scratch your back with tools, but it’s become our little routine. No different than our daily walks, our dinners in our pjs in front of the TV, and our favorite game, “Make believe I’m working.”
“What are you doing in there?” I sometimes call out to him while he’s toiling away in the spare bedroom we recently turned into a home office.
“I’m working,” he’ll say, and I’ll chuckle. The truth is neither of us are working. I’m writing and playing with flowers most of the time, neither of which qualifies as work. And he’s in there, without any doubt in my mind, planning a massive surprise party for me, for what year I’m not sure, but I know him well enough to know he’s had something up his sleeve for the past thirty years.
When he asks me what I’m doing, I always say the same thing, “Just working on something in my head.” And then he chuckles. He knows I’m playing. I know he’s planning. I scratch his back, he scratches mine.