My husband is doing my head in. Not in a ‘I need to lay a new patio’ kinda way. Nor in ‘I need to look for one bedroom flats’ though the latter is certainly appealing.
I should point out for fairness and balance that my husband is a lovely bloke – kind and supportive, a great dad and loyal friend. That said, he is an utter arse.
Again, for the sake of balance I should point out that as a newly middle-aged woman I am,
A. obviously perfect!
B. prone to menopausal rage that burns hotter than the sun. ( if in doubt see A and agree, nodding wildly)
The annoying things my husband has done today.
- Leaving his breakfast stuff on the side in the kitchen – again! We don’t have fucking washing up fairies
- Not pushing in his chair at the dinner table, leaving it sat in the middle of the bloody room like a maypole that we silently circle around.
- Returning from tidying the garden with a rotten dried up tea towel, asking if I want to keep it?
- Attempting to ‘chat’ to me while I am listening to a talking book. Waiting until I press pause, scowl at him, and then withdraw before muttering ‘nothing.’
- Returning to interrupt me as it’s ‘really important’ that he tells me one of the tomatoes is red.
- Leaving every light on.
- Turning every light off as he tries to kill me while I walk down the stairs in the dark.
- Reading this and saying ‘I didn’t do that today, I did that yesterday’ utterly missing the point of creative licence and comedy effect – wanker!
Is this what middle-aged married life is all about – endlessly annoying each other?
The most annoying thing about my husband is when I apologies for my apocalyptic rage at him forgetting to buy custard creams and I say, ‘I know I’m really annoying’. He, passive-aggressively, says, ‘you’re not really.’ ( full disclosure my husband claims this is just his normal voice, and no sarcasm was involved – I think you know who to believe!)
With a house at last empty of children, we could be having sex on the living room carpet. We could be staying up all night drinking red wine, listening to jazz and discussing post-modernist art.
Instead, we’re in our pyjamas, watching celebrity MasterChef, sighing really loudly, wishing the other would get up for a wee so they can make a cup of tea. (He says he was just breathing but I recognise a sigh when I hear one.)
And when did the pyjama thing happen? We used to sleep naked, curled around each other, waking in a dreamy tangle of arms and legs. Now if he moves one inch over my side of the bed I wrap myself burrito style in the duvet, while wearing pants and vest. And a balaclava. Only to kick them all off screaming that its boiling, if his hand reaches for mine.
How are we meant to live like this? Is married life simply reduced to a string of petty annoyances?
Is that why you see old people sat in restaurants silently eating their dinner looking at everyone else chatting?
Are they one second away from a nuclear row about who put the toilet roll back on the holder backwards?
(he just suggested I add the question marks to those last bits – arse)
Why is middle-age like this?
What does it all mean?
Answers on a postcard – only don’t be sending me shite answers because I’m not turning off my talking book to read them if they’re crap.
And thank you, I am already on fucking HRT.