My husband and I have a beautiful yin and yang that makes our marriage work.
For example, he prefers to take the necessary precautions to keep our children safe and then has faith they will be fine. I, on the other hand, prefer to drop my girls at a sleepover and then become obsessed that the other family will forget to lock their doors and some kind of intruder will snatch my kids in the middle of the night.
He also prefers to leave stuff in piles and I, because I’m curious by nature, prefer to ask him, “Why the hell is there 40 pounds of change on the dresser?! It’s money. Put it in your pocket and spend it.” It’s like he’s waiting for all those pennies, nickels and dimes to turn into scrumptious halavah. (If you don’t know what halavah is, see “food Jewish husbands like to eat.”)
He prefers to ponder the mental anguish of Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Cliff Lee who can’t seem to win a baseball game this season. I prefer not to be concerned with the well being of anyone who makes 21 million dollars a year. Unless it’s Jennifer Aniston. Because that millionaire deserves to have love, a family and happiness.
But there may be no greater yin and yang in our marriage than when it comes to bananas.
My husband enjoys eating them. I find their presence on this earth terribly problematic.
Yes, they are cheap. But if cheap was the only thing that counted when it came to food, wouldn’t we all be eating a large McDonald’s fries at this very moment?
This is the thing about bananas. There is only about 16 minutes between the time they are green and then too ripe. That is a lot of eating pressure.
Plus, I don’t trust any food that has the power to corrupt my other food. Like if you store a banana with a bag of pretzels, suddenly the pretzels taste like banana. Bananas are like some kind of evil super hero produce.
And inevitably, bananas are always taken on car rides (mostly because they come in their own cute carrying cases), and the peel is left in the car. To bake in the sun. Which means the stink of the bananas will permeate through every crevice of your car leaving you with a scent that can potentially last the lifetime of the vehicle.
The only time in my life that I have actually had a need for a banana is when I have had hankerings for a Banana Banshee Daiquiri on the streets of New Orleans’ French Quarter.
And there are probably no bananas in those dreamy drinks anyway.
But for the happiness of my marriage, I let my husband eat his bananas.
As long as it’s not in the car.
Or in my presence.
But he’s welcome to find a nice spot in one of the dank corners of our unfinished basement and eat them endlessly.
I’ll be on the couch upstairs eating candy.
Yin and yang.