It’s possible that I have acquired the reputation of being a bit of a bitch to my husband on this blog.
Or perhaps that’s just the old man whining again.
But having recently devoured Gillian Flynn‘s novel, Gone Girl, from cover to cover and in record time, (so I can see the film on cheapie Tuesday), I beg to differ.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Amy Elliott Dunne, but I have to admit to a secret respect for the protagonist of the book and her cunning logic when it comes to husband management.
In the old days, we used to cut men’s ties in half or bury prawns under the rug to get even (didn’t we?), but setting your husband up for your murder is a fairly radical move.
Not that anything is impossible when it comes to the fracture of love and relationships.
I won’t spoil the plot for those who haven’t read the book, seen the film or bought the tee-shirt yet, but since I finished it I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m either way too soft on the old man or plain stupid when it comes to dealing with the daily disappointments that pertain to my husband.
OR it could be that I’m the perfect wife.
Here’s why:
After 21 years of marriage, I don’t actually care enough to waste valuable time plotting revenge for the old man’s inadequacies.
These days I do allow him to make love to me provided a) I can pretend he’s Brad Pitt b) I can turn the lights off (so I can pretend he’s Brad Pitt) c) I’m allowed to read my Kindle at the same time and d) I don’t have to pretend to orgasm anymore, which is just so exhausting.
I only nag him these days when he needs to be nagged – is it really my fault that he can’t follow simple instructions from one hour to the next?
I always ask nicely for my morning cup of tea in bed.
I am very tolerant of his few friends and sometimes even invite them to the house.
I dress him, in terms of selecting his clothes, in what I see as a public service.
I feed him from Monday to Friday in return for one paltry dinner at the most expensive restaurant I can find at the weekend.
I listen to him (without yawning) while he drones on and on about his deathly boring get-rich-quick and money-saving schemes. It’s quite sweet that he still truly believes that he can educate me about the value of money, but it’s also why I’m sometimes forced to operate in an uncharacteristically clandestine manner, and withdraw wads of cash when he’s not paying attention.
I try to stay as physically beautiful as I can within the limitations of my age and the third-world level of cash I am allowed to siphon from our bank account indulge on myself without him finding out sulking or having another dull domestic on the subject of money.
Are you under-appreciated perfect-wife material too?
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