Not too long ago, while I understand that multiple personality disorder is a serious disease, I would exasperate my husband, by accusing him of having just that malady. It started as a result of a major injury to my foot, during which time I was in a steel boot, and pretty much immobile for several weeks.
I called him Josephine the Plumber when he unclogged the drain. I referred to him as Martha Stewart when he set up the party for my daughter’s track team, for a pre-competition carbohydrate binge. He became Emeril Lugasse when he actually did the cooking for that party. He walked through the kitchen with a hammer in his hand, and suddenly transformed into Tim, the Toolman, Taylor. He had some major gardening to do, and he went out there with a rake looking very much like Mr. Greenjeans, of Kaptain Kangaroo fame.
While he drives like Mario Andretti, opines like Bill O’Reilly, and has rituals like Sheldon Cooper, I never had to condemn him for channeling Frank Sinatra, Fred Astaire or LeBron James (although he would like to think so of the latter).
Sometimes I wish he would break out into to song. I think he’s done it once. And I would LOVE it if he didn’t make it seem like a chore to dance with me at an affair. We share a lot of common interests, like sports and comedy. I love him, whoever he is at the moment, and I have for a very long time. In fact, we’ll be married 32 years in September (if I don’t kill him first)!