If I was being shipped to a desert island (I wish!) and I could take with me only one thing for entertainment and companionship, it would be Paul. He’s more than just a husband — he’s a best friend too! And look, he talks and walks and cooks and drinks beer! He even tells me I’m beautiful and makes me laugh and doesn’t die of embarrassment when I do my ‘banjo dance’ (think of how a hillbilly who’d never seen civilisation outside of West Virginia might bop around at the neighbourhood corn-husking festival) and he thinks I’m smart.
In the face of a mid-weekend crisis (Oh my god, I just realised that I can’t go out whenever I want because I have a family and responsibilities. WAAAAAH!) he ultimately acts like a grownup and decides that, you know what, world? He likes hanging out with his wife. Even when she prank calls him at 4am on a work night, after she’s had too much to drink while visiting family in the US, and says ‘Cleetus!’ and then dissolves into laughter: he just sighs and hangs up, knowing that he signed up for a lifetime of this when he inked his John Hancock on that marriage certificate.
They don’t make ‘em like him anymore.
