Husbands.

My hubby dearest has hair that looks a bit possum-y when he wakes up.

It’s fitting since he used to be in a band called Awesome Possums. That wasn’t their original name though – Sam and his buddies started out as “The F-Bombs” until the teachers and parents learned what that meant. Oh, the fifties. What an innocent time.

If you don’t already know, my husband (who was born in the eighties) refuses to call himself a Millennial. He insists that he’s a Baby Boomer. He tried first to claim membership in “The Greatest Generation,” but that was pushing it too far. No one would let him get away with it.

This is, if you can’t tell, a retribution piece.

First thing this morning, my husband’s sweet, devoted and kind wife (who sounds like a real gem, if you ask me) was expressing her admiration.

Her hubbalicious had just figured out how to make the coffee machine in their hotel room work, and she was expressing her appreciation with right-sized words of affirmation.

“I adore you,” she said. “You’re so good at being a husband. You make my life so much better.”

“You’re good at so many things. You’re good at keeping your cool when you get crammed into a middle seat on a 100-degree plane.”

“You’re good at handling work stress without losing your mind.”

The list could have continued, but he cut in: “You forgot to say that I’m so good at handling my wife without losing my mind.”

“Pssh,” she responded. “I am exclusively a gift in your life.”

“You are a gift,” he answered instantly. But then there was a pause. A pregnant pause.

“You’re telling me you’ve never received a bad gift?!”

Husbands.