My husband asked me once why I write everything out longhand before I type. I told him that the physical act of writing helps me better organize my thoughts and seems to require less editing later on. He laughed and called me “old school”. Old school? Really? He is two years, eleven months, and one day younger than I am. Was there a technological revolution in the late ‘70s that I somehow missed? Somewhere in the years of disco, TRS-80s, and Pong, my pathetic little mini-generation at the end of the Vietnam era was apparently left doddering in the dust with our quills and ink wells.
He is a conundrum, and I have finally realized why (although I had to write it out longhand to get it). Women are not meant to marry men slightly younger than they are. Cougars and cubs are fine – you expect him to be young and vital, and he revels in your experience and excitement (or so I’m told). Gold diggers and sugar daddies are fine too – he’s rich, you’re gorgeous and you pretend to be dumb – everybody wins. It is highly unfair though, at thirty-seven and thirty-four, you require a box of hair color with “maximum 100% coverage for resistant greys!” every four days, and he is despondent to find a single silver hair. Giggly young cashiers hit on him as the bagger tells you, “Hey! My mom uses that same hair color!” Your husband is carded while buying Nyquil and men your own age refer to you as “Ma’am”. It’s OK though. With a two year, eleven month, and one day longer credit history, my name appears on the house deed first.
Old school…pfft. I told my husband that I wanted a minivan with a rearview camera to avoid hitting things – mainly our children. I have hit the garbage can and recycling bin more times than I care to count. I ask this for the safety of our offspring and the taillights of the car, I said. He told me to look behind the car as I was getting in and to strap all the kids in their car seats before backing out. He thinks he’s so smart.
He’s really just cheap.
I mused aloud one day that the baseboards needed cleaning, and as my knees are past their warranty I might offer the eleven year old down the street some money to do them. My husband gasped and choked until our five year old asked if we needed to throw him back in the lake or something. “I don’t hire things done in my house”, he scowled indignantly.
This is a lie.
He often asks when my brother and his girlfriend can babysit so that he can get some uninterrupted mommy time. He had no issue having his father resod the backyard last year while the man was supposed to be spending his vacation with us. He was thrilled to death when my mother sent her cleaning lady over as a surprise while I was in the hospital with baby #2.
OK, Captain Independent Pants. Here’s your brush and bucket. Good thing your knees are two years, eleven months, and one day younger than mine.
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