If my wife and I were a bottle of single-malt scotch, you couldn’t afford us; we’ve been aging together in the same cask for more than 36 years.
But as it turns out we’re not that expensive. We’re not Laphroaig, we’re more like a dusty bottle of Durkee Famous Sauce that got lost in the back of the pantry for three and a half decades.
Why would I make the claim that my marriage is like some second-rate condiment slathered onto ham sandwiches and boiled weenies? It’s a fair question and not at all a surprising one, especially when you consider there are a helluva lot of people asking why I do any of the things I do.
But to be fair, you’ll have to blame this one on my wife, because it’s her theory that “mayonnaise people” and “mustard people” always attract.
You’re probably thinking that it can’t be that easy. With single people spending vast sums on dating services like eHarmony or Match.com, could it really be as simple as taking note of what other people are smearing across their buns?
Look, if I’ve learned one thing in 36 years of marriage, it’s to not question my wife on the important stuff, and it’s clear that she’s put a lot of thought into this, even if she doesn’t necessarily have the statistics to back her up.
I’ve been a witness more times than I care to remember when she’s asked unsuspecting couples their innermost condimentiary secrets, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t relish their answers. And wouldn’t you know it, in the vast majority of those cases, rarely did she uncover two mustards or two mayonnaises. It was almost always one mustard and one mayonnaise.
Is it true in your relationship? It is, isn’t it? Of course it is!
And it certainly explains why my wife and I are now like a bottle of Durkee Famous Sauce: I was mayonnaise, she was mustard, and together we’re the slop that’s a little of both.
Now if I could only figure out how ketchup fits into the equation.