The week that was

A normal day in a happily married couple's life

On Monday, my wife threw a hissy fit. “I don’t want your stupid car, I don’t want your stupid driver, I don’t want your stupid money,” she said, even though I hadn’t offered her any. But long years of being married have taught me to read between the lines, so I went to an ATM, withdrew cash, gave it to the driver in an envelope to hand over to my wife, and took an Uber to work. 

On Tuesday, my wife was in a better mood. “Can I take a lift with you?” she asked. “I can be dressed in no time at all.” I said she was very welcome so long as she did not delay me. “I’ll be ready in a jiffy,” she promised. And proceeded to strew the bed with the contents of her wardrobe, which she abandoned for a spot of gardening, to leave it to poke around the kitchen shelves, only to decide she preferred a spot of darning in the morning light, before opting to wash her hair with mineral water, by which time it was very late, so I took an Uber to work on the second subsequent day.

On Wednesday, I said I needed the chauffeur as I had appointments in town, and my wife said she didn’t mind getting dropped off en route, she was lonely by herself at home. I gave her my credit card and told her to go indulge herself at some mall, but in the evening she was in a terrible mood because all the dresses she’d liked weren’t in her size. And instead of sleeping that night, she pittered and pattered about the bedroom, because of which I woke with my eyes puffy from lack of sleep.

That Thursday, my wife wanted the driver to make some deliveries. At first, she couldn’t find the packages, then she couldn’t locate the addresses, then she couldn’t square the timings, so finally she decided it might be better if she accompanied him and made the deliveries herself. Except there was a transport strike, so I had to cadge a lift with a colleague in the morning, and most of the day at work was spent trying to organise one back so I would not have to walk home. 

On Friday, she had some friends over, and they had lunch, and when I got back, my wife said she was depressed, her friends were mean, and I didn’t love her else she wouldn’t have to sit around mooning at home. So we went out for dinner, and she told the waiter she made better guacamole at home, the cooking oil was off, and were they really going to charge for the oriental chicken because there was nothing oriental about it. I took two Tylenols and went to bed.

As you read this, I will be at work instead of helping my wife cook for a bunch of people coming home for dinner. She’s made her displeasure known — but absenting myself from work isn’t an option — so, this evening, my wife will ignore me in front of our guests, but be cheerful and chatty with them. And everybody will think me an unpleasant sod with such a nice wife that I don’t deserve. It hasn’t been a nice week at all.