Anchors are a good thing. Vanessa can take my anchor comment however she wants, but anchors hold you steady, and that’s not a bad thing. It’s like saying, “You’re my rock.” Women love hearing that, and rocks just sit there doing nothing. (But don’t tell Vanessa that unless you want a lengthy lecture on geology.) Rock, good; anchor, bad? It makes no sense.
And it works both ways. I’m probably keeping Vanessa from doing a million things that she thinks might be fun, like go live under the Tuscan sun or whatever, and she should thank me for that. Because despite how it’s portrayed in the movies, Tuscany is full of soccer-loving Euros. No one wants to watch the World Cup year-round, but that’s essentially what they do over there. They’ve got the wine, sure…but at what price? You need all that booze just to get through another zero-zero tie.
Now, none of this means that Vanessa and I shouldn’t do our own things from time to time. That’s just healthy. I love Vanessa. She’s the best wife a guy could ever ask for. But sometimes, I need to be able to talk sports and firearms with a bunch of dudes who won’t clear the area if I pass gas. (And the office doesn’t count.) Parsnips are good for you, but if you ate them at every meal every day, you’d probably die. Luckily, my anchor knows to go easy on the parsnips. And not just because they make me gassy.