My boyfriend grew up and lives in Australia half the year and Canada the rest. During the health crisis, he is working a temperature checkpoint at his work, which means that he is pulling double shifts. This also means that, despite everything, we do not get to speak more than twice a week because he is either working or sleeping or I’m the one asleep.

It has been two weeks at this point since our last call, which was our last conversation. I am at work when he sends me a message over Skype, which includes picture spam of my favourite character from an MMORPG, which he always knows cheers me up.

Me: “What’s with the picture spam?”

Boyfriend: “I feel like an a**hole.”

Me: “Why would you say that?”

Boyfriend: “Because I haven’t been around, and whenever I’m free I’m usually helping [Brother] with something or babysitting [Nephew] or neglecting you, and I’m sorry.”

Me: “So, to say sorry, you chose to send me a picture of [Character] in nothing but a loincloth on the beach?”

Boyfriend: “Yes.”

Me: “Apology accepted.”

Our country has been on lockdown since late March. It’s now mid-May, and we’ve only just had some of the severe — and incredibly necessary — restrictions lifted, meaning my lovely hairdresser is once again taking appointments.

By the time I get there, it will have been almost three and a half months since I last had my hair done. Not really a big deal, in the grand scheme of things, but I have noticed a few unwelcome changes.

I also have a running joke that I’m getting old, even though I’ve only just cracked thirty-one.

Me: “Oh, man, I’m so old, my greys are showing! Look!”

Partner: “I really can’t see anything.”

Me: “It’s right there!”

Partner: *Stares intently* “Don’t worry; that’s white, not grey.”

Me: “…”

Partner: “Uh, I mean…”

Me: “Yeah, that didn’t make it better, thanks.”

Partner: “No! It’s fine! You don’t even notice it!”

Me: “Mmm-hmmm.”

I totally don’t care — I’d love a white streak a la Claire Saffitz –but watching my partner trying to backtrack made me giggle which, during this rather scary time, is always welcome.

My cousin learned to speak French at an early age and developed a great interest in French culture. In her mid-twenties, she moved to France, fell in love with a French man, and married him.

A couple of years later, the two of them came back to Canada to visit, and a few of us went to the pub. My cousin perked up visibly as soon as the first pint of beer arrived in front of her, and she was obviously distracted from the conversation by the hockey game on the TV in the corner. Her husband, meanwhile, began to wilt more and more until he was almost pouting. When my cousin looked around and noticed this, she leaned over and the two of them had a brief conversation in French. After this, he didn’t look happy exactly but more resigned than miserable. 

Later, I asked her, “Hey, what was all of that about?”

She shrugged. “Oh, you know, when you’re married to an immigrant, you’re always worried that they miss their home country and they’ll never feel like their adopted culture is really home,” she explained. “When he saw me having fun at the pub in that really Canadian way, it sort of poked him in the insecurity, that’s all.”

“Okay, but what did you say to him?”

“Oh, something like, ‘My darling, I love you, and I love France. I wouldn’t be there with you if I didn’t. But no matter how true that is, I was still born in Canada, and the day that I don’t also love hockey and beer is the day you can put me in the ground.'”

My husband and I are visiting Seattle. We approach the Seattle Monorail and my husband, who is a massive fan of The Simpsons, gets this big goofy grin on his face.

Husband: “Mono—”

Me: “Nope!”

He mock-sulks and I can hear him humming THAT song. A few moments later, we pass another couple.

Couple Husband: *Under his breath* “Monorail, monorail!”

I look at the wife.

Me: “You, too?”

The wife laughed. I did eventually let my husband sing the song on the monorail, and he later said it was one of the highlights of his day!

I don’t know how it is for most women, but my monthly cycle gives me noticeable changes in my hormones almost every week, so it’s pretty easy to tell where in my cycle I am.

This particular night, I am talking with my husband when I realize that the reason I’ve been having one particular stress all evening is that I’m getting my “one week to chaos” warning. I mention this to him.

Husband: “What, so this is the ‘week before’ meeting, to finalize plans leading up to the event?”

I roll my eyes a little.

Me: “I guess so.”

Husband: *In a dramatic commercial tone* “Hormone Event Planners; the best planners in the body. Period.”