Most days, I wake as the last of the stars fade into the sky. I make my way into the kitchen to make coffee, nearly tripping over the mewling cat twisting between my ankles. As I scratch my armpit, my thumb catches in a hole in my T-shirt. Then, I try to run my fingers through my hair, but yesterdays gel pulls at my scalp.

Finally, my coffee is ready. Shuffling toward the living room, I squint into the light and set the French press next to my overstuffed chair. Ahhhh an hour of pencil-to-paper journaling before I must think about waiting deadlines. Mid thought, I look up and smile at the dog curled up on her pillow. She thumps her tail.

In the room next to where I sit, my husband, Lyle, still slumbers in his equally hole-y T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Renegade snores escape his CPAP-Darth-Vader mask. Lucky for me, the tick tock of the mantel clock passed down through the generations blocks most of the noise.

On the weekend, without an alarm, Im lucky to get a half hour of this quiet writing time before Lyle clomps by on his way to the bathroom. He hawks up a mambo loogie making my gag reflex kick in. I try not to growl at the fart bomb also headed my way.

He walks back out, thrusts his hips in the direction of my cozy writing corner.

Wanna boink?

Id like to say I would never scrunch up my face and reply, The vapor following you could strangle the dog, you know. But in all the years weve been married, I admit Ive said much worse. Believe me, my prize factor has also diminished in our 20-plus years of marriage. Ive lost and gained enough weight over the years to anger my skin; without adequate sleep, I turn into something unrecognizable, even to myself; and my own flatulence could make a room of 8-year-old boys belly laugh for days.

If Ive managed to gulp at least one cup of coffee as Lyle waits by now swirling his hips I might grin and say, You sure know how to get me in the mood.

I smile as he turns around and picks up the clutter on the kitchen counter. He opens a drawer, grabs a rag, and wipes crumbs into the sink. Hey, look over here Im even gonna clean off the stove.

I laugh and look up from my notebook.

Oooh, baby, baby, I say. Show me a little more love. Gimme an hour. I gotta finish this thought.

He completes the lick-and-a-promise tidying as I reach for noise-canceling headphones. Soon, well grab a quickie, offer thank yous, and get on with our days standard practice a few times a week. Its not nearly frequent enough for him, but Im quick to remind him (even if he doesnt believe me) that were having more sex than any of our friends and many couples a hell of a lot younger than us.

A few days later, youll find us snuggled up on the couch streaming one of the few shows we both like enough to watch together. He offers a foot massage, and who am I not to accept.

You know, we used to do it every day sometimes more, he says as he rubs salve into my dry heels crusty feet that even I dont want to touch.

I lean up and nuzzle into his neck. Sorry about your luck, dude, I say. Its what I got.

What we also had recently was a big anniversary 30 years. Im not sure how it can seem like yesterday and an eternity at the same time.

Newly married, I had imagined clichd sunset walks and long, romantic conversations. Sure, I suppose there was that trip to Lake Eerie watching the waves crash around the lighthouse as gulls soared high in the sky, but there was also the fight where I cartoonishly whacked him in the arm with a frying pan following a disagreement about the proper towel to use when washing a car.

My mom and dad certainly couldnt offer advice since theyd been through their own dysfunction involving marriage, divorce, marriage, and divorce (all to each other) before they finally called it quits. Instead, I turned to the only one in my family who was still married my Gram. I wanted to know her tricks or maybe some pointers to build a successful marriage, but shed say things like, Sometimes it feels like a lot of work, but its till death do you part.

Her so-called advice sounded more like a life sentence, but I convinced myself Gram wasnt doing it right, either. After all, she and my grandpa seemed to enjoy their time apart more than time together. I was convinced my marriage would be different. Yet, on mornings when my headphones wont cancel out Lyles bodily noises, I admit Ive fashioned a girl palace in my mind quiet, tidy and aroma free.