Why IS it that…grown-ups need grounding, too?
© Shana McLean Moore

Bless my husband's cotton socks…and the grounding rubber soles of his shoes. You see, when I'm not too busy charming the footwear right off my man's feet, I concede that my electrifying personality can be as exciting as a bolt of lightening sizzling down your leg.

Gulp. I am a girl who tends to surge and flicker.

Lucky for us both, though, I usually manage to keep from shorting out by treating my near outages with a soothing latte, and my emotional swells with a glass or three of vine juice. Most days, this keeps me reality-based enough to avoid seeing myself with servants and a tiara each time I turn the pages of our daughters' favorite books, yet still doesn't manage to cloud my sunny disposition.

Then there are the days when I'm grateful for GFI.

Let's just say that after thirteen years of marriage, my personal Ground Fault Interrupter knows exactly when to shut things down. His first clue that things are heading toward a meltdown is usually when he sees a lottery ticket sitting center stage, perched atop a pile of luxurious travel brochures. While this scene is delusional in its own right, it becomes downright shocking when you take into account the ominous stack of unpaid bills that's lying abandoned in the wings. Yet, at the risk of walking away with his eyebrows singed, my brave husband dares lend a voice to our beleaguered checking account. With all the skill of a master electrician taming a live wire, he offers:

"You're right, babe, we need a vacation. Once you finish paying the bills, let's put some money away in savings so we can start planning that trip."

A rookie would throw a sarcastic, "in 2030" with that statement, or even declare my cerebral wires officially "crossed," but my man's wisdom tends to allow us both to walk away from a white-hot situation with each facial follicle intact.

This marital dynamic of ours just became clear to me recently when a very exciting publishing possibility was presented to my virtual inbox. For the sake of credibility, I'll add that it included neither the country of Nigeria nor any type of enhancement medication. And true to my surge-n-flicker form, within minutes, my delusional mind extrapolated the possibility all the way to envisioning the outfit I'd wear while chatting to Oprah about my first bestseller.

Later, as I bubbled with enthusiasm about it to some of my girlfriends, one of them asked what my dear Russ thought about it all. When I replied that the news elicited an exclamation point-free "Wow," my pals winced at his lack of support.

The gals just about had me convinced the man needing flogging. But then it dawned on me that my husband is forced to work overtime whenever my hopes and dreams dim, or crash like an overburdened circuit breaker after the fifth strand of Christmas lights.

Without realizing it on the day we said our vows (and I was the closest I'd ever be to wearing the princess title), I married the emotional equivalent of a pair of rubber-soled boots. Some might argue that a pair of Prada wingtips would have been a sexier choice, but I prefer the comfort of knowing that my man knows when to hold his ground, while simultaneously providing me with one.

Besides, those boots also know when to give me a good swift kick in the pants.

Like it or not, some of my "exciting possibilities" have turned into dream-sinking "definitely nots." When they do, my perception of reality can look an awful lot like Eeyore's. As I sulk around my boggy place muttering "Oh bother, why do I bother?" my husband uses those same boots to kick me square in the donkey derriere. He reminds me of the many possibilities that have led to probabilities, and somehow, despite my current ass-like attitude, even ended up as personal victories.

My first impulse, as he tries to talk my pointy ears down, is to back it up and give him the type of double hindquarter kick that only a mule can muster. But then, sometime after the third "Remember when?" I am forced to step out of my mental swamp and focus, if only for one day, on what I have instead of what I'm still aspiring to.

That, my friends, is my idea of a sole…er, soul mate.