I knew Chris and I would probably be stuck together when, on our second real date, I was stabbing the ice cubes in my water with a straw and looked up to see him staring at me. His expression was dreamy, as if I was the most perfect thing he had seen. That’s when I knew he had already fallen in love with me.
He loves the little things about me, the oddities, and that’s what I love about him, too. We play these night word games for hours, just lying in bed, games like “The Weirdest Movie Cast Ever,” where we just say stuff like, “Starring Angela Lansbury, Sean William Scott, and Meatloaf.” Or, if we’re really tired, we’ll just say words that rhyme – “Blame.” “Flame.” “Dame.” – until we run out of rhymes. We constantly quote snippets from our favorite TV shows or just speak in sounds, like Furbies. If people could see how weird we are when it’s just us, they would probably question our ability to function in civilized society.
This kind of goofiness is what keeps me happy during my more depressive days. Chris can always make me laugh. It’s pretty impossible to stay super low when your favorite person is doing a spot-on impression of John Goodman or Robert de Niro’s face
(it’s the frown-smile look). Not that Chris is just a piece of silly string when I’m crying about the hopeless of life; he knows when to be serious, but he also knows how important humor is for me when I’m sad. Humor is also something I employ when I’m sad, to deflect my negative feelings. I’m always able to make my psychiatrist laugh.
Whenever Chris and I have made each other laugh hysterically for a while, we always say the same phrases. It’s one of our ways of saying “I love you.”
“You’re a silly goose.”
“YOU’RE a silly goose.”