The app DubSmash allows you to record yourself lip-synching to any piece of audio – song or movie clip. Within two days of download, I was entertained for hours and completely addicted. But beyond me, I knew my husband would LOVE this; he’s a professionally-trained actor. It would be like asking a baseball player if he wanted to go to the batting cage.
This morning after we successfully tag teamed the two-child, two-state school drop off, I scanned my long list of things to do. Invoices, 6 loads of laundry, finish article, 2 huge commissioned art projects, review clown resumes. My husband tinkered on the computer, deleting emails in his own brand of procrastination. I look over at my hubby and say, “Want to do some DubSmash with me?”
An hour passed and my abdomen was aching from the laughter. I don’t remember the last time we laughed so hard. “I can’t believe we wasted so much time,” I said to my husband.
“Call it what you will, I didn’t waste my time, I had a blast!”
I did too – and I felt so guilty about it. It was easy for me to fall back into the familiar motherly, Type-A, use-every-minute-of-the-day mentality. We created this life for ourselves where we can use the hours how we wish, yet I was my strictest boss, judging myself for enjoying quality time with my husband.
My husband and I are partners in life. We split household chores, life responsibilities, and run a business together. We are also best friends who can’t keep our hands off each other, which is crucial if you’re going to keep the passion and romance going 11 years strong. The mortgage is paid, the kids are fed, we schedule sex, but not always good ole fashion fun.
My DNA must partially be responsible for my compulsion to constantly do more, see more, taste more, clean more, write more. There are never enough minutes in the day for me; when I go to sleep I feel guilty because I could be accomplishing so much more!
This morning my husband stopped me from my self-inflicted punishment. “You have to live your life,” he reminds me. “You have to allow yourself to be happy.”
So we made more DubSmash videos. I laughed so hard I peed through two sets of leggings, which was extra lousy since I had decided the laundry would wait until evening. I copped out on a healthy lunch and instead indulged in dark chocolate covered pretzels with coffee. Releasing myself from guilt never tasted so delicious.
I thought back to our early days of dating when every time my husband and I would get together, it would be to do something fun. We didn’t get together to go to Costco or change the oil in the car; we didn’t divvy up carpools or play dates. We went to concerts, we saw off-off Broadway plays, we walked 60 blocks in any direction just so we can hold hands and walk as stars of the New York City version of our romantic comedy.
There was the Philharmonic concert where we fell asleep under a blanket after indulging in a rare batch of homemade sangria and then we awoke after the fireworks were over and the park had cleared out. We emerged from under a warm blanket as the happiest, luckiest, most in love couple. We danced in the rain on my fire escape on 97th Street. On New Year’s Eve, we bundled up and watched fireworks over Central Park. We strolled the streets of Greenwich Village, fingers intertwined, giggling like teenagers and reminiscing about our entirely different experiences at our mutual alma mater.
My husband and I came from different places; took different paths but arrived at the same destination: each others heart.
I added today to our book; another scene in our epic love story.