NORMAN — I don’t belong to a religion that demands confessions, but sometimes releasing something into the world is beneficial to the soul. I also don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. I think they are great, if you stick to them. But I’ve never been able to hold out past January on what I declared to resolve in December.
So here’s my plan. Every week, in this space, I’m going to confess something about myself. That’s 52 revelations about me. Since this idea came to me the third week of the year, this week I’ll offer up three insights into my world.
The first one is that I love my dogs more than is even possible to put into words. Although, I don’t think that’s really a secret. I’ve got more pictures of the dogs on my desk than I do my husband. He’s OK with it, since he could say the same thing about his desk.
Pretty much most of my day is spent missing my dogs. They are the center of my heart, and, as they age, I worry about the day I have to give them one final good-bye. During the day, I wonder what they are doing. I wonder if they are cleaning the house. They never do, by the way. I wonder if they are missing me, too. I’d like to think that they do, but I wonder at times that they enjoy living life on the furniture more than they do the idea of me ever coming home.
Both are dogs adopted from the shelter, but I know I wasn’t the one doing the rescuing. Both girls have been such an important part of our lives. I firmly believe they rescued us. We were just lucky enough to find them.
But before I met the dogs, I met my husband. Now, if someone would have told me on our first date that I was going to marry him, I would have laughed. Our relationship was one that looked good on paper, but in person we were totally wrong for one another. It took us a few years, around five of them if memory serves me correctly, to work it all out and finally decide that fate brought us together and love would never tear us apart. This year we will celebrate our eighth year of marriage and I don’t know what I did to deserve someone who is not only my best friend but allows me to talk about him to strangers in the newspaper. He’s a keeper.
My third confession is that I don’t like cucumbers. If one should make it’s way to my salad, I kindly give it up to the nearest bidder — usually my husband. But I love pickles. I’ve no idea why I favor one and not the other. Essentially, they are the same thing.