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We go on a date every week to reestablish our connection to each other. This is necessary both for our sanity and my whininess.

I am still giddy about my husband and being in his presence, despite the fact that we are, you know, MARRIED.

We chat amiably over a glass of wine and our conversation is about our kids. About our life. About our dreams and our desires, our plans for the future. About the price of tea in China, figuratively speaking. We laugh. We share. We don’t do anything special at all. He holds my hand and as I look into his eyes, my heart, my brain, my whole being swells with adoration.

Sometimes in these moments I am so consumed with the love I have for my husband I don’t know what to do with myself. I am what one would accurately describe as a “goober.” I find my desires stuck between maintaining a sense of public decorum and lunging across the table, kissing his sweet cheeks, flinging my arms around his neck and hanging on for dear life. I can’t imagine a life not filled with his presence; his joyous laugh, his soft hands, his kind smile. I wonder how I ever even existed a day without him in my life, let alone decades.

It’s that thought that gives me pause — that stops me dead in my tracks as I reach over to butter my hunk of sourdough bread — and I’m instantly shrouded in fear.

What if something happened to him? What if on some random Tuesday a meteor crashed down upon his car? I mean, apart from the scientific magnificence and the ramifications on the natural environment, WHAT on the gods’ green Earth would I ever do without him? How could I possibly exist without this man who rubs my back at night, whose calm smile and plain, solid goodness keep my frantic brain grounded? How would I ever remain sane? The obvious truth is I would be a mess without him. A miserable, maudlin mess. FACT: I don’t do well when he’s out of town. I get weepy. I worry and I pine. I am emotionally reduced to the state of a lovesick teenager, staring out windows, fretting that he might be hurt and longing to hear his voice.

I become pathetic.

I know this about myself, and I have no problem admitting it.

I know that I become a soppy, overly-sentimental nutjob at the very thought of a day without my love. Imagining what a lifetime would be like? I can’t think like this too long. We’re on a date, after all, and what sense is there is inconsolable weeping over good wine and hot fresh bread all over an imagination full of “what ifs”? No sense at all.

But there’s always good sense in kissing the man you love, even if a whole restaurant is watching.

-- By Traci Arbios
herdingsquirrels.com