This article is one that most, if not all, married men can (should) relate to if they are truly honest with themselves. And just for the record I would rather NOT be this guy but if I’m asking the readers to be honest with themselves then I must lead by example. I am this guy, damn it!
For the sake of this article let’s say we remember our mid 20’s (shut up Michael). Back then we enjoyed our newly found freedom(s) as bachelors; we had a little cash in our pockets (~$1.37, some lint and something that resembled corn), a plethora of seedy, sticky floor bars to troll, a cornucopia of vacuous women to date and awesome foam cheese hats that smelled like Yogi the Bear after a weekend bender. We lived alone, perhaps with a roommate or three; we had furniture from second hand stores, a Betamax copy of CHUD, and curtains that looked deceptively like sheets. Life was good.
On top of all that we made our own meals (yes I’m counting microwaving and eating SpaghettiOs from the can), we paid the bills, we did our laundry, we cleaned the house, we put gas in the car, and surprisingly we even dressed ourselves. Granted all of these things were NOT done to perfection; bills were paid late, the car wasn’t always spotless, we wore a black shirt with blue shorts (and on occasion a white belt). You get the point, we were self-sufficient entities gliding through life. Of course at the same time Bill Gates was building Microsoft and Steve Jobs was creating Apple, and there we were driving to FLIP to buy clothes. CRAP!
Fast forward to your current married life and what happens when your wife goes out of town? You can’t find your keys, you’re not sure what cabinet the spatulas are in, you leave the house with two different colored socks, a wily raccoon takes up residence in the extra bedroom, and for some strange reason there is an odd odor permeating the house. What the hell happened?
I, like you, used to be the MOST independent self-sufficient person you ever met. Now, however, when my wife goes out of town I devolve to a poorly written white neighbor character in a crappy Tyler Perry movie (like there’s any other kind). Point of Fact; I do NOT LIKE being this guy! But given the choice of being an independent bachelor living in an empty vodka bottle encrusted home to that of a dependent husband who no longer (if ever) knows how to dress himself. I choose being married and happy over being single and leaving the house with my favorite holey, stained, 25 year old Madness T-Shirt.
There was a day when I used to know how to flirt with women (well that’s how I remember it). If, god forbid, I was single today I would undoubtedly fail miserably in the dating game. I have no doubt instead of flirting I would relentlessly mock “the ladies” until I had a drink, or seven, thrown in my face. I assume that complimenting a girl on her exquisite choice of dead-fish looking nail polish is not very smart. Funny sure, but smart? No. And seriously why on earth does she have French manicured toenails? You might as well be wearing acrylic high heels and a neon sign on your chest that reads “Open for Business”.
Perhaps we husbands of limited resources need to hold a candlelight vigil and thank Shiva that our wives have taken on the life long project that is our existence. Do they pester us about drinking too much? Yes. Do they make fun of our choice of “dinner clothes”? Yes. Do they make us watch The Family Guy alone? Yes. Are we better men because of their influence and assistance. You bet your ugly, hairy asses we are!