Percival

I would love my husband more if I were illiterate. Or if I only read the newspaper.

Most of this started because I created the lofty goal of reading The Classics by the time I’m 40. If I did not read there would be no Mr. Darcys, Edward Ferrars, Mr. Rochesters, Ransom Lakes (technically not a Classic), Mr. Knightleys, or…drumroll, please…Percivals.

Last year my Book Club read The Scarlet Pimpernel. We chatted about France’s dark history while we ate red velvet Guillotine Cupcakes, but the best discussion was in regards to the end of Chapter 16. Chapter 16 is when Percival talks to Marguerite all night on an open carriage ride back to their estate and realizes, just as the sun is creeping over the horizon, that his wife isn’t a traitor. In an instant his disdain for her turns to fierce love. However, he’s a spy, so he has to mask the fierceness. Marguerite mistakes Percival’s lack of emotion for lack of love, so she turns and tearfully walks away from him into their big ol’ mansion. And then…the best part…as she walks away in her fancy schmancy gown he waits until she is out of sight and kneels down to kiss every stair her dainty feet trod on. And then he collapses due to his great love for her, gets on a horse, and rides away to save her brother. Sigh. Foreign men, am I right?

For a solid year I’ve wondered to myself What am I doing wrong? Why doesn’t Greg love me like Percival loved Marguerite? He doesn’t kiss the ground I walk on and my beauty has never caused him to crumble. WHY CAN’T HE WORSHIP ME? Is it because I’m not French? Is it because I don’t wear an excess of diaphanous gowns and bewitch him with my sideways glances?

I have thought long and hard about Greg vs. Percival and this is all I have to say to my husband:

Dear Greg,

First of all, (haha) you’re off the hook. I don’t ever expect you to worship me. You worship the only thing I worship, and I’m glad we worship Him together.

You picked me (after only two dates) and I chose you back (with a mission call in hand). Since then there has been so much mesh and overlap that we will never be able to split into YOU and ME again. We are US, so there’s no getting out of this. Living with you has become my status quo for comfort. There is no one else I’d rather be with.

There are lots of things that I love about you. You listen, I talk. You’re quiet, I make you laugh. No one else will ever call me "Softbackasaurus". You never make me drive on road trips. If you’re on work calls at home you deep clean the range and make our bed without even realizing it. We have the same taste in everything that matters, meaning you could buy and furnish a home for me and I know I’d love it. You make the best guacamole and chips on Sunday nights.

You let me sleep in every morning and ignore my morning grouchiness. You bring me a lemon bar or s’mores brownie from Schmidt’s Bakery every Friday because it’s on your way home from the temple. You ask if my clothes can go in the dryer. You always give me the salty end cut of any meat you grill. You save the Parade magazine for me and taught me the word lagniappe. I go weak in the knees when you wear your Scout uniform and think you’ve been very patient for the years it has taken me to perfect your haircut. (Sorry about the one time I accidentally gave you Vanilla Ice lines above your left ear.)

Together we can cook better than Bobby Flay.

Still, you are not perfect. You don’t like to hold hands when we walk Lucy. You put your dirty clothes in the wrong hamper and can’t seem to remember how to stack our measuring cups when you unload. Yes, I hear what I’m saying. I’m complaining about how you walk beside me, clean up your own stuff, and help out in the kitchen. I’m such a nag.

Sometimes on Sundays, after your many hours of church meetings, you go upstairs to change your clothes. An hour later I'll walk into our room and find you peacefully slumbering in your flat front suit pants, white shirt and still-laced dress shoes. You are exhausted. And while you are a man (with just the right amount of body hair) you somehow resemble a little boy to me when you nap. I watch you sleep and think, Look at him. He provides for me Monday through Saturday and then serves the Lord for so many hours on Sunday. He never gets a break. I should stop being such a nag to him because he’s trying so hard. Only yesterday he was a free-spirited kid stopping his bike by dragging his sneakers on the street and today he’s a grown up with loans and employees and life insurance and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Ease up, lady. He’s giving everybody all he’s got.

I promise to nag you less and love you more because you are real and Percival is fake.

Love, Wass

*Photo of my I LOVE YOU sweater. I traded my burgundy Eddie Bauer sweater to my sophomore roommate Tiffany for her purple and olive green J. Crew sweater. Olive green matches my eyes, so it was my go-to color back in my man-snatching days. This is the sweater I wore on the date that Greg first told me he loved me, nearly 16 years ago to the day. We ate at the downtown SLC Olive Garden and due to my upbringing (we were never allowed to order soda at restaurants, only milk) I asked him if I could get a Sprite. He answered, "Baby, you can get whatever you want." My stomach fluttered and I was sunk. Later that night he said he loved me. He still refers to the Sprite as the best $1.69 he ever spent. I don't drink soda anymore, but if I did it would be Sprite.