Can (opener) of worms...

One of the things I admire about Eric is that he’s a simple guy.

Not simple as in unintelligent; simple as in, he’s sort of a minimalist and gets by on very little.

But as much as I do admire him in that way, things got a little out of hand the other day.

The man wanted chili, so of course I—in my desire to prove myself domestically capable—was more than happy to cook him up a good meal. But when I was elbow-deep in the process, things came to jarring halt.

I had cans of kidney beans, tomatoes and tomato juice, but I had no can opener.

No. Can. Opener.

The man has lived there for more than two years, and he doesn’t own a can opener?!
Honestly. Wow.

But, I thought—oh, ok, no problem. He’s an army guy—surely he has a Leatherman or something with an opener on it. But when he brandished his Gerber, it didn’t have an opener, either. Alright, so, plan C: pull out the ol’ “One time, when I lived in the bush…” flathead-screwdriver-and-hammer approach.

No flathead.

I mean, honestly. Who is this man?!

And as I’m there, flabbergasted, all he can say is… “I guess we should have planned a little better before we started cooking.” And by “we,” I can assure you he meant “you.”

I should have planned better.

(Wild hand gestures.)

Speechless. Just speechless.

So you could say the first week of being engaged has been eye-opening. I’ve learned two big truths.

First, Eric needs me. And that’s just strange.

I’ve long acknowledged that I need him, that he makes me a better version of me, and that God created him just for me. There’s so much about the way he is that challenges me and makes him able to serve me.

But this whole thing where he needs me, where I can serve him—that’s just bizarre.

But I suppose the writing is on the wall now.

I mean, he doesn’t have a can opener.

That’s clearly a cry for help.

And, the second great realization I’ve come to: Registering for wedding gifts with him is really going to be a bear.

Yeah. Something else you should know about E—he owns three spoons. Each one is different. I know what you’re thinking, “Wow… Classy.” And so I, in yet another desire to show myself wife-esque, dug through my boxes in the basement and brought him over a whole set of nice silverware, along with a can opener and some nice Rubbermaid stuff.

I got it all washed up and put away in the cabinets, and you know what he said when I showed him?

“Hmm. Looks like more stuff to wash.”

(More wild hand gestures.)

Oh, but it gets worse.

“I would say thank you. But I’m not really sure I’m thankful.”

OUCH.

So, I’m certain you can picture us there, registering at some department store. My scanner-wielding hand hovering dangerously close to some wildly superfluous item, such as… oh, I don’t know… towels. Or plates. Or—gasp!—a ladle.

And the eyebrow will go up. And he’ll tilt his head that certain way, as if to say, “Do we really need that, Andrea?” And my shoulders will slump. And I’ll remember the can opener.

And I’ll try to be happy that I’ll have so few things to wash. ;)