There are many types of people in this world but when it involves fans, I believe there are two particular types.
Those who sleep with a fan.
And those who think the fan is trying to create an Arctic blizzard in the bedroom.
For eleven months of the year, my husband acts like the fan is his mortal enemy.
“I can’t stand that thing, it’s freezing!”
Meanwhile, I’m lying there wondering whether spontaneous human combustion is actually a thing.
Honestly, the drama is impressive.
Then…
The temperature creeps up to 30°C.
Suddenly, the same man who has spent the rest of the year declaring war on the fan is lying directly in front of it like he’s discovered the greatest invention since sliced bread.
Honestly, the change from pure hatred to desperation is breathtaking.
Since hitting my forties, I’ve discovered this isn’t just our house. Nearly every woman I’ve spoken to around my age has had some version of the same conversation.
She needs the fan.
He thinks the bedroom has somehow become the North Pole.
And then there’s the menopause brain fog.
Because apparently, once your hormones start changing, your brain occasionally decides it would like a little holiday too.
One evening, after a long day and very little sleep, I decided to be a lovely wife and make Gareth a hot drink when he got home.
In fact, it’s a regular evening occurrence when he arrives home from work. I like to do nice things for him.
He doesn’t get home until around 11 o’clock at night, so by that point my brain was already running on whatever tiny bit of battery was left.
I picked up his flask from beside the bed like I always do because I normally empty it before making him a fresh drink.
He was invested in something to do with his other work.
Only this time…
My brain decided to take the evening off, as it seems to do these days, without my permission.
I started pouring the contents down the sink.
Then halfway through, my brain finally whispered:
“That looks an awful lot like hot chocolate.”
Followed by:
“I wonder if I should actually be pouring this away…”
Whilst simultaneously watching my hand continue pouring it down the sink in slow motion, like it wasn’t actually part of my decision-making process.
By the time it finally landed in my brain, it was too late.
Gone.
Down the drain.
Along with any chance of winning Wife of the Year.
I made him another drink and took it in.
He looked at me.
“Where’s my hot chocolate?”
I froze.
“…It was an accident.”
“You threw it away, didn’t you? Why would you do that?” he said, looking wounded and somewhat confused.
“You watched me pick the flask up!”
“Yeah…”
“But I wasn’t actually paying attention.”
Touché.
Fair point.
Apparently, neither of us was fully functioning at that point.
And that’s marriage in a nutshell really.
Two tired people, both doing their best, occasionally getting it completely wrong.
And speaking of things disappearing…
There are the monthly water bottle investigations.
Usually about once a month, I hear it.
The huffing.
The cupboards opening.
The slightly dramatic searching noises coming from the kitchen.
And I already know what’s coming.
“Where’s my water bottle?”
Now, we actually bought five water bottles all in one go.
Five!
So explain to me how a household with five water bottles can still reach a point where we can’t find a single one.
And naturally, the first person under investigation is me.
“Have you moved it?”
“Have you taken it to work?”
“Have you put it somewhere?”
And, to be fair…
Many times the answer is yes. 😂
Sometimes I have moved it to under the sink.
Sometimes I’ve taken one with me.
Sometimes I’ve sat with one on the bed and forgotten about it.
And sometimes I have put something somewhere that made perfect sense at the time…
but appears to have become invisible afterwards.
But occasionally…
Just occasionally…
I know absolutely nothing about the missing bottle.
And at that point, I feel I deserve an apology from the actual culprit.
Whoever that may be. 😂
Although, strangely, the investigation usually ends before we discover any evidence.
I do feel sorry for my husband because he had no idea that who he was marrying would someday not be able to locate parts of her own brain.
And maybe that’s the strange thing about marriage.
We marry people at one stage of their life, but then we get the privilege of walking alongside them through all the stages that come afterwards.
The changes.
The challenges.
The things neither of us expected.
And speaking of things we didn’t expect…
I would also like to have a word with the people responsible for introducing the ageing process into the world.
Adam and Eve, I’m looking at you.
One act of disobedience brought death and decay into the world in many forms.
And while I’m not saying they are personally responsible for my menopause brain fog, missing water bottles or the occasional lost thought…
I would like to politely ask them what exactly they were thinking.
Thanks for that. 😂
Then there’s my favourite fan story.
I come home from a 3K run looking like I’ve just crossed the Sahara.
Sweaty.
Red-faced.
Completely overheated.
“It’s roasting!”
Gareth agrees.
“It really is.”
“So… why haven’t you turned the fan on?”
“Because you were out running.”
I stare at him.
“The fan is literally six feet away.”
“I know…”
“But you weren’t here.”
Honestly, I still haven’t worked out the logic behind that one.
And maybe, underneath all the fan wars, missing water bottles and accidental hot chocolate disasters, there is something a little deeper.
Because … and I know I’m saying this again but…
I sometimes wonder what it must be like for a man watching the woman he married go through menopause.
To watch someone who has always been capable, organised and on top of things suddenly stand there and say:
“I genuinely have no idea what I was doing.”
That must be strange.
But from the woman’s side, it can feel strange too.
Because there are moments where you don’t even recognise yourself.
You wonder where the person went who could remember most things, juggle everything and keep all the plates spinning.
Now you’re standing in the kitchen wondering why you walked in there in the first place.
Meanwhile…
You still have to pick up the evidence.
Like the boots.
Because why do men have a perfectly good shoe rack, thoughtfully provided in the hallway, but somehow their boots still end up in the middle of the bedroom floor?
And the answer is probably simple.
They’re tired too.
They’re human too.
Just like we are.
Marriage is basically two people doing their best while occasionally driving each other slightly mad.
One person loses their memory.
The other loses their motivation to use the shoe rack.
Both are equally confusing.
But then there are the beautiful bits.
Someone waiting for you to come home.
Someone making you a drink at 11 o’clock at night.
That first cuddle after a long day.
Laughing at the ridiculous things only the two of you understand.
And, of course, having a dog who looks at the garden destruction he’s caused and somehow still believes he’s innocent.
(We’re looking at you, Zeb.)
Because life isn’t made up of perfect moments.
It’s made up of these ordinary ones.
The messy ones.
The funny ones.
The ones where you annoy each other and then five minutes later you’re laughing together.
Maybe that’s one of the greatest gifts of marriage.
Having someone who sees all of you…
The organised you.
The tired you.
The menopausal brain fog you.
The “where did I put that?” you.
And loves you through all of it.
Not a perfect relationship where nobody gets irritated, forgetful or overheated…
But one where grace quietly turns up in the ordinary moments.
The fan wars.
The missing water bottles.
The brain fog.
The accidental disasters.
They’re rarely the moments we treasure while they’re happening.
But one day, they’ll probably be the stories that make us laugh the hardest.
Although…
I’m still sleeping with the fan on.
