My life, as a man, is black and white
I don't mean that as a complaint. I mean it literally. Left to myself, my days have a certain flatness. I can function in it. I can build in it. But there's no colour.
My wife brings the colour.
Her happiness, her joy. It paints the canvas. Vibrancy, contrast, warmth. It's a gift I can't get from anywhere else, and I can't manufacture it myself. I've tried. It doesn't quite work that way.
The happier and excited she is, the more exquisite the colours she brings into my life. That's just what I've observed, consistently, over years.
Early in our relationship she didn't understand this. She thought if I was working, she should be productive too. Useful. So she'd wait, or hold back, or feel guilty about spending an afternoon doing something just for her.
I had to tell her: that's not what I want. When I'm working, I want you living your best life. Yoga. Massages. Great food. Free of obligation, free of waiting on me.
And when she came home after a day like that, I'd see it immediately. It was like the sun came up. She'd walk in and the whole house changed. She was full of life.
I would do anything to protect that and make it happen.
And… that's not like a ‘sacrifice’ to brag about. It's self-interest.
