Are you laughing with me?

Maverick and I celebrated our anniversary this weekend. After 11 years of marriage, 14 years of cohabitation and a history that began almost 20 years ago, I love how amazingly well Maverick really gets me. He understands me in a way no one else does. And when he doesn’t understand me, he laughs at me. I love that too. It’s just one of the many reasons that makes “us” work.

For example, about three years into our relationship, while in the car, I decided to entertain him with my Karaoke Queen singing. Reincarnated in the form of my Rock Band avatar, Bunni, with surfer-girl dreadlocks, Daisy Dukes, knee-hi socks and Chuck Taylors, I curled my hand into a microphone, thrashed my hair all over the passenger seat, shredded my air guitar and belted out every chorus of some Soundgarden tune with ear-curdling off-key half-correct lyrics. I may have truly sucked, but I owned my performance! Thank you for coming out tonight! I love you!

Maverick watched my entire music video with a semi-smirk lurking from behind his hands, resting on the steering wheel. When the song was over, he politely remarked: “You really think you’re good, don't you, Tracy?”

I was mortified—I couldn’t believe he thought I took myself seriously. I’m a jokester, a clown. I make funny faces, sometimes unintentionally, and I laugh at myself. Of all the things I’ve ever thought about myself, being a good singer was as far at the bottom of that list as becoming the smoking-hot, 6-foot-1, Hollywood-supermodel-starlet Mrs. John Travolta, I wanted to be when I was seven.

“What?” I screeched at Maverick in my high-pitched tone. “Good? Are you kidding? I was completely just trying to be funny!” I pleaded and begged him to believe me. I needed him to believe me. I stupidly thought I was amusing him being thy goofy self.

Red-faced, I turned my body towards my car door and sulked. Honestly, I’m pretty clear on which side of the recording contract I sit on. Of all my delusions, my singing well wasn’t one of them. I felt foolish. It’s one thing to be laughed with; quite another to be laughed at.

Maverick laughed anyhow and he laughed for a while. Then he slowly allowed the smile to fade and placated me with: “Okay. If that’s what you say.”

We sat in bloated silence. I peeked at him through the corner of my eye, arms still crossed stubbornly, and saw he was looking directly at me. He was smiling, holding in another burst of laughter. I recognized how hard he was trying to contain himself, muffling the sound that desperately wanted to come out.

I realized how much Maverick really loved me then and my anger faded. I saw the situation for what it was: He sat by quietly, day after day, song after song, and let me sing on the top of my lungs, acting out my silliness, because he knew I loved it. And even if he thought my singing stunk, which it absolutely does except to some neighborhood dogs, he was never going to tell me otherwise. He loved me enough to tolerate my lunacy.

I turned up the radio and belted out another song. We laughed for a long time about that one. And here I am eleven years later still laughing about it. Thanks Maverick, for all the laughs we’ve shared. Even if most of them are deservedly directed at me.