My artist wife walked in the backdoor, dragged herself up the four stairs to our main floor, and flopped herself face first on our couch.
She never even made it to her blue easy-chair in the corner of the living room.
It was late. She had just driven 35 minutes home to our prairie suburb after spending five hours on display.
Sometimes in writing these stories, I might take exaggeration a little too far and need to reign in my storytelling to not stray too far from the real-life inspiration.
My artist wife often acts as this check on my immense imagination that often takes the most modest and trivial detail and blows it completely out of proportion for entertainment purposes.
I might be tempted to call this reality check a “buzzkill” but I prefer to sleep in my bed and not on the couch.
Our wedding was held outdoors in the simmering, summer heat of the Canadian Prairies. However, we planned much of the wedding in the bitter, winter cold of those same Prairies.
It was 15 years ago this week that we took that walk down the aisle before racing off to Quebec City for the fun part. ?
Back then, my artist wife was still burgeoning in her career in those days. Neither of us really had a true grasp of the business side of her chosen vocation.