My husband is freakishly smart. When we first started dating, I asked him exactly how high his IQ was, but he always evaded the question. I began to feel like the girlfriend who continuously asks her new boyfriend how much money he makes. I didn’t want Tim to think I was an intellect whore, so I quit broaching the subject.
Despite his brilliance, or perhaps because of it, Tim talks to himself. I don’t mean he mutters every once in a while. My husband has full-blown conversations with himself at the same frequency with which I eat chocolate. In other words, daily.
Last night Tim was sitting alone, in front of a computer, talking to an email.
I walked into the room, and in a tone reserved for librarians and psycho-therapists, I said, “Hon-ey, you’re talking to yourself.”
He smiled. “I realize this.”
“Do you talk to yourself at work?” I asked.
“Hell, yes! All the time.”
“Honey, people are going to think you’re crazy.”
“Let ‘em think that,” he laughed. “I’ve got a lot a’ shit to discuss.”