B. does a lot of things you won’t catch other husbands within a mile radius. Like doing the laundry. I attribute his natural inclination to washing to him being a Cancer, or maybe he’s just a nice guy. Or I’m lazy. Or both.
On Sunday night, he shows up in our bedroom with my navy sweater arranged on a hanger. It’s a great sweater, adopted on sale at one of my favorite unaffordable stores. The kind of sweater you swear you’ll only wear once a week but then it just keeps sliding onto your body morning after morning.
“Your sweater is confused,” he announces.
“What do you mean?” It’s me who’s confused now.
“It can’t decide whether it’s a pullover or a cardigan.”
In all honesty, it does have a large opening on the front. That was one of its biggest assets, the fact that it’s sort of both things at once. I guess I’d never seen it as “confused.” Does that mean that something I’d always considered it as “versatile,” most people actually saw it as “undecided?” Can a sweater have “failure to commit?” Does that put its owner in the same category? Maybe that’s why I can never pick out what to wear in the morning, whether or not to quit a job and what to be when I grow up.
Moral: Husbands can be so much cheaper than a shrink…