Day 7: The Keys

This post is not about the keys to making a marriage last. This post is not about the key to keeping passion alive. This post is about the keys to our Toyota and what they tell me about my husband.

I should start by saying how blessed we are to work at the same location. Rich and I both work at a University, with relatively similar hours. We carpool everyday, which is wonderful. Accept for the fact that the keys are mostly lost and we are usually running late. It's not that we're unorganized- we have hooks for the keys by the front door, we have tiny cute bowls for the keys in the kitchen. We have baskets for the keys in our bedroom and even a jar for the keys in the bathroom. Last year we had a key alarm that sent out beeping noises when we whistled for it. But the batteries eventually died and our we both were sick of walking around the house whistling angrily at every basket of clothes or jacket. See here's the thing. Rich usually drives and when he drives he always puts the keys in his pants pockets. Looking for the keys in the morning usually isn't much harder than figuring out what Rich was wearing last night and digging through the laundry pile to find it. This morning was different. This morning was different because I was the last one driving and when I lose the keys (rare though it may be) there is no sense of reason to their location. We looked. And we looked. We retraced my steps from the car- to the mailbox, through the living room, to the refridgerator, to the computer, back to the refridgerator...nothing. We were digging through open boxes of spaghetti and searching through jackets I haven't worn in months. After forty minutes of searching, we found them tucked in a novel, like a bookmark. There they were, on the coffee table, holding page 44. Figures.

I said I rarely lose the keys, and it's true. But I'm guilty of all kinds of angry words when Rich loses the keys (which is nearly everyday). I mean I get angry and pouty. I stomp around and snort like it's some great crisis. But today, when my patient husband was running 30 minutes late for his class (and there was a quiz!) he doesn't even frown at me. He kisses me like I'm a champion after spotting them and drives to work in as merry a mood as ever.

He loves me. My husband loves me and that is why he doesn't huff at me when I use the car keys as a bookmark and then forget all about it. He doesn't get silent with me when I make him a half hour late to class, because he cares more about my heart than his own tardiness.

Now, if only I could get him to use the key hooks... or the bowls... or the baskets...