I have been a wife for awhile now. Taking care of my husband. Just gently and lovingly nurturing him, making sure he is fit and fed, making sure he wears his coat when he goes outside. Just so lovingly and uncomplainingly folding each pair of his underwear in the particular way he likes it because it's how his mother always did it. The most gentle and uncomplainingest of apron-wearing and taking his plate away as he sighs in contented fulfillment after eating yet another one of my nutritious yet aesthetically pleasing meals. Just tender and dainty and quiet uncomplaining silence as I listen sympathetically to tales of his difficult work day, refraining at all times from interjecting myself into the conversation or in any way betraying even a single moment of my attention wandering, also refraining at all times from questioning or even vaguely implying that he might be in the wrong about anything. Just the most laughingly affectionate feigning of interest in football. The most careful and diligent shaving of my body, perfuming and powdering of my flesh, the most obsessive and self-hating personal exercise regiment, keeping my abs and belly sculpted and neat for him, as he drinks bourbon and gets paler and heavier by the minute, me never pointing this out or even noticing it, not even deep in my own brain, just taking it as a gentle uncomplaining given that I must devote hours and hours to my own personal appearance and he need not. Just the most selfless and respectful containment in kitchen and laundry room. Gently and uncomplainingly allowing him to affectionately condescend to kill a spider for me. Keeping the screams of childbirth locked deep inside so that he may not be inconvenienced. The kindest and most unconditionally loving approach to allowing him to drive us across town to my parents' house, cursing the mid-morning traffic and frightening the children. Secret cigarettes after he has left for work, hunched over in front of the laundry room window, tiny and grated and almost wholly obscured by grime, the grime of decades of husbands' laundry loads' steam, the smoke from the cigarette winding somehow mournfully up through the slitted-open tiny window, blue and heavy and stale against the redolent steam chugging gamely out through the washing machine's exhaust system and rising out the window and up to a cheerless, merciless blue sky
i've already mentioned today about how my wife and i are working artists and i told her i would not support her if she decided to become a sandwich artist at subway, mainly because i thought she was being snarky and not serious, but
Comments
Seriously, Who's the Beef?
- gary
A lot of Hearts get broken that way.
- gary
- g
Thanks,
gary
a lot.
a lot of Mac &Cheese.
You should write a column!
Sincerely,
Unmarried Wife
I looked for the kind of wife that you don't separate from. Unfortunately those are hard to find.
For about twenty years I held the resemblance of one.
There are things I don't like to do. I don't like to change the plan.
But: life...
So after all those years, I broke up with the plan.
Now it's terrible. I mean, it's OK.
"Bonus."
(Good L'UHX.)
;) (Thought that was Funny in the other forum, change of topic.)
- gary
Taking care of my husband. Just gently and lovingly nurturing him, making sure he is fit and fed, making sure he wears his coat when he goes outside. Just so lovingly and uncomplainingly folding each pair of his underwear in the particular way he likes it because it's how his mother always did it. The most gentle and uncomplainingest of apron-wearing and taking his plate away as he sighs in contented fulfillment after eating yet another one of my nutritious yet aesthetically pleasing meals. Just tender and dainty and quiet uncomplaining silence as I listen sympathetically to tales of his difficult work day, refraining at all times from interjecting myself into the conversation or in any way betraying even a single moment of my attention wandering, also refraining at all times from questioning or even vaguely implying that he might be in the wrong about anything. Just the most laughingly affectionate feigning of interest in football. The most careful and diligent shaving of my body, perfuming and powdering of my flesh, the most obsessive and self-hating personal exercise regiment, keeping my abs and belly sculpted and neat for him, as he drinks bourbon and gets paler and heavier by the minute, me never pointing this out or even noticing it, not even deep in my own brain, just taking it as a gentle uncomplaining given that I must devote hours and hours to my own personal appearance and he need not. Just the most selfless and respectful containment in kitchen and laundry room. Gently and uncomplainingly allowing him to affectionately condescend to kill a spider for me. Keeping the screams of childbirth locked deep inside so that he may not be inconvenienced. The kindest and most unconditionally loving approach to allowing him to drive us across town to my parents' house, cursing the mid-morning traffic and frightening the children. Secret cigarettes after he has left for work, hunched over in front of the laundry room window, tiny and grated and almost wholly obscured by grime, the grime of decades of husbands' laundry loads' steam, the smoke from the cigarette winding somehow mournfully up through the slitted-open tiny window, blue and heavy and stale against the redolent steam chugging gamely out through the washing machine's exhaust system and rising out the window and up to a cheerless, merciless blue sky
TC: i probably totally would.