I thought it was a safe bet to marry a Russian born man who enjoys travel, photography, red wine and jazz, and detests team sports.
Better to enjoy a sailboat on the weekends than watch men in tights throw a pigskin around and smack each other on the behind after they score a touchdown.
Better to watch foreign films, no matter how many might be a tad bit depressing, based around war, a tragedy or a holocaust or two, and dance Tango on Friday nights than go to a bar or stay at home watching bad reality TV together.
Perhaps all that would have been fine if we had not moved to a redneck town.
My husband is changing into a new person - not exactly like Jack Nicholson in the Shining, but to me just as scary. . . he is becoming a redneck.
The catching of fish and gutting them I can handle, the nights camping on the boat and drinking by the fire pit at night I have learned to enjoy. The outdoor sports, I have always been into.
But now he wants to buy a PICK UP TRUCK and a GUN.
I have to tell you, I did not see this coming. It blindsided me completely.
The mountain has gotten into the man, and I ain't sure if it goes with my rep.
Please tell me that none of this is in my future so I can take a breath again.