People who are married/partnered with people who do the same kind of work they do fascinate me.
Like country singers who are married to other country singers (*cough Miranda Lambert & Blake Shelton; Tim McGraw & Faith Hill cough*). Or people who are both writers or artists or scientists.
Like, how do you stand it, when someone’s in your metaphorical kitchen all the time, cooking their shit all over the place? When you also want to cook?
I’ve long said I couldn’t tolerate being married to someone who was a writer. There’s only one flake allowed in my relationships and I’m it. The other person has to be tethered to earth, for Christ’s sake. To pay bills and know how the furnace works and use their goddamn head, you know?
Plus, I get off on the contrast. Adrian’s hands are just a mass of calluses. You dick around with machinery and cars enough, your hands get beat to shit. My hands are downy soft. I never do fuckall with my hands. So I’ll touch his hands and his muscles and be all moony over them. And he looks at me like I’m a dope. He says I should see a real mechanic’s hands. Or the hands of some dude who works on a off-shore platform. They don’t even have all their fingers! Then he’ll shake his head and say, “You don’t even know. This? Is nothing.”
Similarly, sometimes he’ll read a draft of something I write and then he’ll get all fond of me. Like, affectionate and touchy and stuff. And he’ll say, “You’re so smart; I totally like you, blah blah.” And I’ll be like, Whatta simp. Because he hasn’t read all the crap I’ve read. He doesn’t know what Jeannette Winterson does with words. Or Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He has no fucking idea. And I’ll say it back to him. “Oh, honey. You don’t even know. This? Is nothing.”
And so we admire each other, privately, with our own metrics, whether they be informed and accurate or not. He’s in the garage or the basement, flinging wrenches and researching how to pick padlocks, thinking about how everything fits together as a moving, functioning unit; I’m in my office or the yard, hanging laundry, thinking about my goddamn delicious and messy stories. It’s like a mutually agreed-upon delusion. One you hope lasts a long, long time.