Last year I read an article in which the author, a middle-aged woman contemplating divorce, wrote, “When a woman tells me that her husband is her best friend, what I hear is: I don't really have any friends.”
I resent this a great deal.
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My husband is, in fact, my best friend, and it’s not for a lack of good girlfriends. I have a tightly-knit circle of woman ready to support me—it goes with the military territory—and some very close male friends. But none of those relationships even begin to compare to the depth of connection in my marriage.
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Perhaps I’m unusual; maybe I just don’t like women that much; maybe I am naïve or too young. But my husband—who, for simplicity’s sake, should probably just be known on here as Husband—and I simply get along too damn well for me not to be insulted by that quote. Honey, don’t think that the negative energy in your marriage means that the positive energy in mine is bogus. I’m not pathetic, lonely, or dependent; I’m just very lucky to have found someone like him. I can’t conceive of a better friend.
I am trying to explain what makes us tick, but I can't: it gets too soppy and maudlin, it gets lost in words and loses its meaning. To end, then, I will simply echo Emily Bronte: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”