Depression sets in

 

The Salt Lake Temple,
where my wife and I were married a few years back
(click to enlarge)

 

I just said goodbye to my wife a few minutes ago.

 

She’s heading off for roughly a week and a half in France with some friends of hers.  This has been months in the planning.

 

I don’t begrudge her the fun.  (She studied for a semester in Paris before we were married, and she hasn’t spent a whole lot of time in France since then.)  And it’s not merely that I’ll miss her help on various things (she’s been indispensable to me for years) or that I’ll have to feed myself.  (Not to worry!  I make a superb grated cheese on pre-cooked flour tortilla, and I’ve been known to heat chili and beans and various canned soups up with the best of them.)

 

No.  I’m just going to miss her.  I really don’t like the idea of being without her for long periods of time.  Even traveling away overnight has always gotten me down — and I’ve done a lot of that, and for much longer periods than just one night.

 

I really like the idea of eternal marriage.

 

 

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