HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Friday, August 26, 2005Wife Go Bye-Bye
Sigh.
Deep, heavy sigh. My wife's leaving town again. I thought, then, that it might be a good idea for me to make a promise. For the eleven days that she's gone, I will do my very, very best to not turn into a whiny little bitch. In the past, I realize, I've made it something of a habit to grouse about how completely lost I am when on my own here. Not this time, though. I will keep my chin up and my beard neatly trimmed. I will see the apartment as half full, not half empty. Before this promise kicks in, though, let me just say that I'm not alone in this. I have a number of friends who experience the same mysterious loss of mental coherence when their spouses temporarily vacate the premises. Why the hell is this? I'm not talking about schizophrenics whose women have to struggle to keep them on their meds. I'm not talking about twelve-year-old boy grooms who married Mary Kay LeTourneau. I'm not talking about doddering old men whose wives have to change their Depends. I am talking about smart, relatively together guys, all of whom got along just fine for years and years before they got married. Why, then, do all of us become ghost men, shambling from room to room in a fog and forgetting where we put our coffee? Why do we get so anxious for their return that we take so sleeping in their nightgowns? (That one's not me, it's my friend Deni.) Why do we turn into fucking Eeyore? Do we suspect, on some level, that they won't come back? Do we worry that, with nobody else in the apartment for days, we'll become trapped under a potted plant and die from internal hemorrhaging before they get home? What in the name of hopscotching Christ is wrong with us? Sigh.
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