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Husbands Anonymous |
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Chores My wife and I are engaged in an alarming stalemate about house chores. Her silent treatment has given me sufficient time to pinpoint our conflict's origin to the moment she caught me washing already washed dishes. Cleaning the apartment had always been a pleasant weekend activity, usually accompanied by loud music, dancing with vacuums, and most often ending with inspired and squeaky shower sex. She comes from impressively fanatical cleanliness, me from an upbringing of embarrassing sanitary neglect. Over the years though, she has learned how to relax, and I have learned the utter beauty of a shining toilet. But am I to be persecuted for giving the kitchen floor another mopping, smoothing out an already made bed, and re-folding laundry for better space efficiency? She seems to think so. For now, we remain temporary strangers, sidestepping the obstacle course of our accumulating clutter. Our walking space is running out.
Dinner Tonight's meal has ruined eating for my wife and I. Our anniversary should, at least once, deserve four stars, I postured like a husband in love, affordability was not an option. Amateurs, we arrogantly chose the most complicated entrees in order to confound the chefs. The unpronounceable flower salad appetizer my wife ordered unpacked her stored-away memories of previous, more generous anniversaries. My veal entrČe rigorously excavated, from deep recesses, a childhood of excessive breastfeeding and closet detention. Discerning our difficulty with the manipulative cuisine, the waiters were kind enough to loan us palates more sophisticated than our own. We escaped to the bathroom mirror to collect ourselves, and returned to find our place settings replaced, our napkins refolded, and all the mess of our personal history erased. Neither of us dares to reach for the pristine bill. Even if I could pay, I would not feel any less bankrupt.
Happiness The happier my wife and I are, the more I think I am dying. My wife's reckless vitality is both envious and annoying, given the enhanced prevalence of accidents in this new threatening world together. One must be realistic, I tell her, about the dangers joy invites. A caress while cutting vegetables for dinner could sever crucial arteries and leave me drained pale in my wife's arms. Unannounced reminiscences of our enacted lust could distract me into oncoming traffic. During our morning shower, relating these morbidities affords her much amusement, and yet her playful shove could easily send me upended and broken-necked onto sudsy porcelain. I keep private the serious concerns, like the C word and other initialized ailments. It is exhausting worrying for the both of us. Hopefully, it will only be me entangled in the hospice bed, dying for sure, but with more than adequate time to regret.
Memory These days, I arrive at my wife's rest home with my duffel of disguises, prepared to play whomever she expects. It is compelling being married to someone who no longer knows you. Though doctors assure its authenticity, my wife's senility is quite vindictive. Her deterioration recalls all of her marriages but ours. This charade gives my visits the savoriness of watching in-between the action takes of her amateur porn. Working with a limited forgiving audience, I collage all the infuriating anecdotal gestures and phrases piecemeal from the previous life of hers I struggled to ignore. Nurses shake their heads as if disdain is a vaccine against age, and then ask me to perform at their children's birthday parties. As long as I am here with her, I do not mind my wife's joyous, fading indiscretions. I only hope she'll maybe remember what she loved about me, before I forget her.
Parenthood My wife and I are surprised to find parenthood so enjoyable. While our neighborhood's new mothers and fathers age exponentially from public tantrums, we retain the ruddy elasticity of newlyweds with a healthy balance of adoration and neglect. Rubbing lotion on my wife's slack belly and stretch marks is a treasured ritual that even a crying baby cannot interrupt. Witnessing the pleasure our newborn exudes being changed, my wife and I plead geriatric relatives and incontinence to avoid the messy explanation to cashiers of our adult diapers purchase. After the initial gag of certain flavors, my wife and I have cultivated a taste for baby food, packing jars in our lunch bags, and on especially adventurous evenings, experimenting with it as an erotic spread. The recent accompaniment of our darling on the bed during lovemaking sessions is an easily misunderstood practice that my wife and I have understandably kept private.
Wedding It has been brought to our attention that my wife and I are addicted to weddings. Though gregarious and community involved, this habit supercedes the impressive number of invitations we receive. My wife and I must scan the newspapers, prowl neighborhood religious institutions for limos, camera flashes and flying swarms of rice. We favor blending in with the bliss of strangers to the mundanity of guest lists. Frisky and aggressive, my wife strangles me with my necktie, then steps through a cloud of perfume she knows I hate. I zip up her dress back to get in the last word. We share cigarettes in taxi backseats. Our tastes are distinct. I am especially susceptible to flubbed personalized vows, while my wife enjoys watching fathers giving their daughters away. After ravaging assaults to the reception banquet, we hit the dance floor. Without a place to sit, we dance to every song.
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