I am convinced that I am head-over-heels in love with my wife.
Why else would I indulge her every whim? Her requests for me to forage for food are promptly at five. I always muster my resolve to go to a place that serves healthy food, but the time of day seems to keep my focus on world-famous restaurants, known for their cuisine. McDonald’s is a favorite stop, as is Burger King, Wendy’s or any other establishment equipped with a drive thru. There are days, usually the days we are paid however, when my wife relents to ordering in. She doesn’t appreciate the fine bouquet of a fresh sandwich, delivered to our door. So, Pizza Hut or our neighborhood Italian delivery is on the menu for that night.
I have also come to the conclusion that my wife is obsessed with sweet smells around the bathroom.
She recently purchased something new for the bathroom. It greets me with a spray in my face, every time that I bend down to lift the toilet lid. Annoying? Yes. I often wonder if I am being poisoned with some secret chemical that only she knows about. But then, it couldn’t be any worse than the automatic air freshener that sprays a misty cloud of foul-smelling sweetness, every time that I approach the bathroom mirror in our master bedroom. I’m “maced” in the face, every time that I bend down to open a drawer.
I am constantly accused of being a male.
What is the accusation? That I don’t listen. I pity the poor husband, who is ground down into the proverbial carpet, his mate abrading him like she’s sharpening a knife on a grinding wheel. One can picture those articulated barbs flying as fast as the sparks from the wheel (every time she touches the metal to the stone); each one more damning than the next. The poor fellow winces from each accusation, because he knows in his heart of hearts, that she is correct. I often am gratified by a single barb from my wife…that of me being the “y chromosome”.