So the other day, I was working away and I stopped to have a quick lunch at my desk. I called my husband to chat about some mundane renovation issue, but he didn’t have much time to talk. He was running out the door because he had a date with a driving range and a bucket of golf balls. Oh how the times have changed.
The fact that I was eating a curried chicken-apple-cranberry salad and double chocolate chip cookies, all lovingly crafted by the golfer in question isn’t at all germane to the discussion. The issue here is that clearly I’m a saint, working for the “man” while my own man enjoyed the loveliest summer day imaginable (the weather here is outstanding—warm sunshine, no humidity, cool breezes). And how do I feel about that? Très, très contente.
See the thing is, in case you forgot, all that finding me in France was financed by Big Red. He too walked away from everything he knew to indulge my whim. Now I’m not saying I dragged him across the ocean by the collar, no, he wanted to go as much as I did, but he had to work the whole time, enduring transatlantic flights four times a year just to maintain the wifestyle for which I whined. Now I get to return the favour, a little. And I have to say, it feels good.
I don’t get to do much for him. I’m too busy receiving to give, nice work if you can get it. Well, I am a champion stain remover, lucky I’d say given he’s a champion stain maker, but really, that’s about it chez nous. There’s not a whole lot I bring to this equation other than the pleasure, the profound pleasure, of my company.
Ah but now it’s all topsy turvy. He’s a man of relative leisure, by choice and, obviously, by permission. I’ve given him licence to take some time to find himself and find some balls in the rough (no hidden meaning in that golf reference—sometimes a cigar is just a cigar). And I’m the sugar mama, okay, on my salary an aspartame mama, but still.
Of course this new order gives me incredible power—naturally it’s all in my own mind, but who’s counting? I have to admit I used to feel that I because I wasn’t working (writing a goofy book aside), I wasn’t a fully equal partner. More like a silent partner who never shuts up and never pays for anything. How he coped I have no idea. Doesn’t matter, there’s a new sheriff in town with delusions of having the upper hand.
I’m thinking that must be the the reason I bought a condo in need of Neil’s services. I have to make sure he’s occupied at all times. My biggest fear is that he’ll get it in his head to start writing a blog about his life with me in France and post pictures of me flossing my teeth or, god forbid, in shorts. If any of you come across a blog called “Finding my Wife at Home—A Husband’s Descent into Madness,” let me know.