Marriage is a slog. There’s no way around that fact, and no matter what Dr Phil says, some marriages just don’t have a “Hero.”

Toby and I got Married when we were twenty, and twenty-four years later it’s safe to say that the reason we got married was the same reason we’ve managed to stay married for so long: the sex. The sex is great. Gotta give him points for that. Woot, woot. Go you well-hung thing.

Everything else is an ever-blooming cluster fuck that, were it not for the sex, would’ve had us racing each other to the divorce court before I collected my stupid meringue dress from the dry cleaner. We have grievances…so many grievances.

He only showers every third day/I shower twice a day.

I keep the floor so clean, you could eat off it/He likes to test that theory.

He built a gadget that strangles the ever-loving shit out of the toothpaste tube so as to wrench every last drop of its spearminty essence/I have a different conditioner for every day of the week, (some days I like to be glossy, some days I like to be bouncy, so sue me).

I like to arrive at places early, (the term “At the sparrow’s fart” is a major exaggeration)/Should he need to be somewhere on a Monday, I’ll tell him last Tuesday.

But no matter how tooth-grindingly aggravating we may find each other most of the time, we’ve always managed to channel all of our pent-up psychotic rage into hot, angry hate sex, and feed off the afterglow for a day or two afterwards.

Until today. 

I walked into the kitchen this morning to poach myself an egg, and found Toby standing before the open cutlery drawer, scratching his back with a butter knife. I reacted the way any sane person would react; by grabbing the knife, washing it, then throwing it into the boiling water to sterilize it. We voiced our mutual displeasure in unison.

‘What…’

the…’

‘fuck.’

This would usually be the time we’d render ourselves in a state of half undress and make hay against the dishwasher, but what I saw when I looked into his eyes was the same thing I imagine he saw in mine:

Nothing.

I looked at the man whose flesh I’d had wedged under my fingernails for the better part of twenty-seven years and thought Not today. 

We’ve both learned a lot about one another today: I learned that Toby has a great arm for throwing plates, and Toby learned that I’m a crack shot with a staple gun. 

There is no “Hero” in our marriage, because we’re both assholes and, you know what? We like it that way.