The Perfect Man For Me

I like reminders, so I email my husband every day from work: Remind me to bring chili tomorrow, wear a silly hat on Tuesday, bring a baby shower card on Thursday. The dog’s appointment is at 9. Please give the cat his pill at 11. This amuses me, because it was not always this way. As a matter of fact, the first few years of marriage, Actually, the first thirty years of marriage, He did not even make his own sandwich; I had no idea he could. Now he’s the only one the grandchildren will allow to let make their omelets. “No thanks, Grandma,” they’ll say. “We’ll wait for grandpa.” “He’s in Topeka, it’ll be two hours.” They nod. “That’s okay.” My husband has become the perfect husband after a few years of me Figuring out that it was okay to let go and stop doing things I hated doing. I have stopped dusting, cleaning, and cooking, and we have others do the mowing now. It’d be easier if I wasn’t perpetually planting trees, bushes, and flower gardens, but I get a perverted pleasure in seeing how long it takes them to go around all my mazes. We had a cleaning person, but we let her go because we didn’t think we should pay someone Twice as much as I make at work, especially when she pretend cleans with one hand, a perpetual cell phone in the other. What little cleaning I do is angry cleaning, in a furious frenzy, and I have to invite company to spend the night, in order to inspire me to do that. I invite company two times a year, and I’m in a horrible, mean mood as I’m cleaning for them. My man overlooks this big, bad, awful side. He has become the perfect man for me. In actuality, he always was.