My love is fuelled by drama

As a matter of fact, I don’t watch TV anymore. I don’t follow sport. And I don’t go to the theatre. Organised entertainment simply cannot compete.

Overly dramatic. Picture: Pinterest

Today, I have a terrible confession to make: I’m married to a drama queen.

I’ve told you about my wedding anniversary two weeks ago. Well, there are some compulsory elements to any wedding anniversary: the dinner in a fancy restaurant, the candles, the hand holding, the exchange of gifts … and asking yourself what the hell happened.

And when I tackled this last part, I realised why I married the love of my life: her life seemed like a romantic war – a beautiful woman alone in a battle against the cruel, unfair world. And I craved to stand next to her, to protect her against society’s irrationality.

After two years, I rather see her as a woman who storms into a theme park to outdo the roller coasters and big wheel rides. And I love every moment of my wonderful wife’s addiction to drama.

As a matter of fact, I don’t watch TV anymore. I don’t follow sport. And I don’t go to the theatre.

Organised entertainment simply cannot compete. My love is fuelled by drama and I dare not miss a single episode.

Yes, it’s exhausting. But at the same time so wonderfully revitalising.

Nothing is imagined. Every terrible threat is as real to her as a 15% VAT rate.

She’s never simply ill – it’s always life threatening. Nothing is a simple inconvenience – every little thing has the potential to destroy civilisation.

And every night, after she has read a piece from her chick lit novel, she goes to sleep, covered with our duck feather duvet in the knowledge that she may die during the night.

Everything is a cause for divorce or reason to be together forever – there’s nothing in between.

My dear Snapdragon, after years of watching you live life in your own special way, I cannot lie: I sometimes hate the drama. But please don’t stop – I don’t think I can live without it anymore.

If I need to, I can always retreat to Dirkland, the quiet place in my head where the soft music plays and Finnish twins sporting denim shorts and blonde braids smile at me. (But I’m not allowed to talk about them, I’ve been told sternly.)

Should I fear the consequences of this column as I sit and write it?

Possibly. But then, the world may very well end tonight, in which case it won’t matter.