The Storm Whisperer


In a rare moment of clarity last night, I saw my husband for what he really is:  a Storm Whisperer.  Perhaps that is too general a title.  He should be called “The Frances Whisperer” because  he doesn’t jump in his car and chase super cell tornadoes.  He just lives with me.  Husbands:  those of you who have calm, rational, human wives, go out right now and buy them something expensive and sparkly.  DO IT.  You are very lucky men.   You don’t live in hurricane season 365 days of the year like David does, trying not to drown in the whirling dervish typhoon that I create around myself.  My husband is the strongest and bravest of men.

Sure, he’s annoying.  Sometimes he’s downright infuriating.  But he puts up with me (see whirling dervish typhoon comment above).  I think he might even love me and let me tell you something, readers, I am hard to love sometimes.  Make that a lot of times.

I have a fuse so short that no one has time to actually measure it before the explosion.  The barometric pressure actually falls if I’m in a bad mood.  Dogs flee, family members don foul weather gear.  Not all family members, mind you.  My husband stands, feet planted firmly on the beach, glass of red wine in hand.  He holds it out to me as I spin by, trapped in my selfish little cyclone.  Other times, when we’ve unwisely let the red wine run out, he just speaks in a certain tone.  This is an emergency tactic and not to be practiced by amateurs.

He doesn’t say my name loudly.  No, no that wouldn’t do at all.  Yelling is like emptying a can of lighter fluid on a fire already burning out of control.  He says it gently, only loud enough for me to hear over the roaring in my ears. He doesn’t move.  He knows sudden movements are not advised.

Last night when somebody said something irritating, my husband employed his Storm Whisperer skills.  As my head spun around on my shoulders like Linda Blair, I snapped, “WHAT?”  Then I heard it: my name.  The air around me became strangely still and calm.  Suddenly, I was in the eye of the storm.

I felt my lungs expand and my jaw unclench. I had been holding my breath.   I didn’t respond to whatever it was that set me off.  I turned around and inhaled again, deeply.  Silently, I thanked my best friend for being there.  The storm was over.

This morning, I sent him a little email apologizing for being a whirling, dervish cyclone.  I don’t do that very often.  His efforts go unheralded, unnoticed.  I am very sorry for that because I truly don’t know what would become of me if he weren’t there, feet planted firmly against the storms that I create – usually at least once a day.

Thank you, my love.  But as always, keep an eye on the sky…


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