I’m 44 years old. I’ve been married 23 of those years, which means I’ve officially been married more years in this life than not. That’s wild to think about. It’s been a good marriage. We are right for each other. We know each other. But to this day, what I still don’t know is if I’m allowed to eat the guac in the fridge. Let me explain.
I work to help buy the groceries. She often shops for them or, as I wrote about yesterday, has some guy pull up, unannounced, with a car full of groceries, and I’ll carry them in. I often help put the groceries away, too, which leaves me feeling especially domesticated. And yet somehow, somehow…I still need clearance from HQ before I so much as peel the foil back on a plastic container. The fridge is stocked like we’re prepping for a hurricane, but somehow…everything in it is for later. I don’t get it.
There’s a tub of guacamole on the second shelf down. It’s just sitting there at eye level. No note. No tape. No “Just for Looks” or “Do Not Eat” labels. Just guac. Calling to me. Staring at me every time I open the fridge. And yet, I hesitate. Why? Because after 23 years of marriage, I still don’t know what it’s for. It might be for a party. It might be for a friend coming over. It might be for a church potluck next week. Honestly, for all I know it might be for the president. I don’t know what she’s planning, but I do know this: nothing in that fridge is ever just in the fridge because.
And sure, I could eat it. I do what I want around here, folks. I could open that container, dip some tortilla chips, and live free, live wild. I could chance hearing “Why would you eat that?!” followed by a ten-minute lecture that starts with guacamole and ends with me needing to apologize for something I did in 2009 just before I head back out to Safeway.
So, I text her first. Again, don’t get it twisted: I am a grown man. I am a grown man with a job and a mortgage. I am a real man. The chronic lower back pain proves it. I do what I want. And 23 years into this, as I’m crouched in front of the fridge, evidently, what I want is to text my wife and ask, “Hey babe, quick question: that guac up for grabs?”
Twenty minutes go by. No reply. Argghhh! “That container of avocado had to be for me,” I reason. She knows if she puts that in there, I’m going to eat it. Of course it’s for me! Friends, I don’t want to seem weak but maybe this is how Samson felt when he lost his strength and it led to his downfall. Don’t get me wrong, I am the man of the house. No doubt about it. I make decisions. I handle things. I’m respected around here. I think. Let me double check with her; I’ll get back to you on that.
Truth is, I’ll eat what I want when I want. I just need to check first. I’m not some house pet. She’s not standing over me with a wooden spoon. She doesn’t have to be. Her voice lives in my head now like a built-in conscience. Or a dark angel. Or a probation officer.
Sometimes, before I even get to send the text or ask, it’s like she has a sixth sense. She knows. Oh, believe me, she knows if I’m thinking about the guac. I’ll get a text from her: “Don’t touch that guac in the fridge; it’s for something.” For what?! And how did you know? And what is “the something”? Are we gonna baptize someone in the guac; is it that sacred? Is it going to be auctioned off with the estate? Is it going to be shown in the Smithsonian?
Meanwhile, the guac is turning brown. It’s dying in there. A slow death. A metaphor for my inner emotions. But I leave it. Because I’ve learned: you touch the wrong food item in a long-term marriage, and it’s not just a snack anymore, it’s a crossed boundary, a treaty violation, a lecture. So I close the fridge quietly and respectfully like I’m walking away from a coffin.
One day, maybe, I’ll open the fridge and find something that’s both edible and not assigned to a secret event. But for now, I’ll wait. Because I love her. And because I know if it’s not the guac, it’s the juice. If it’s not the juice, it’s the cheese. My point: marriage is just a long series of give-and-takes. The real vow? To have and to hold… unless it’s for something.