I am a relax man, and my wife is a motorcycle.
Just after marrying over 11 years ago, we would sit long mornings on the yard patio, at the glass table beneath a big blue umbrella, eating warm croissants, sipping hot café, seeing orioles and hummingbirds.
And me, a relax man.
In those early days, she did not quite know what to make of me, the only Gringo she had ever known, much less married. I was alien, so she observed, mimicked and wondered about a wife’s role.
She had never married before. She was 41.
But in time, she found her own legs and pace. She cranked her inner motorcycle, and she’s been hauling butt down the highway ever since.
She rarely sits down.
I, on the other hand, remain a relax man.
I don’t try to brake her, and she never pushes me.
Now we breakfast at the dining room table. Then she immediately leaps up and begins her full-throttle day. I linger longer, and that’s okay.
I’m a relax man. And she’s a jumping bean.