My wife rescued me from an insufferable existence as a consummate bachelor. Many guys might not like to admit it, but my wife has spared me the indignity of a solitary existence of exclusively eating bologna sandwiches and drinking half-spoiled milk, and not even caring that it’s half-spoiled.
Some of my single friends want to paint a portrait of marriage as a loss of freedom and chauvinistic tendencies. I even know guys who have been with their gal pals for more than a decade before they finally decided to tie the noose — um, I mean knot.
Since getting hitched in September life has been spectacular, provided I have the foresight to remember to place the toilet seat down, which, in theory, is pretty easy task to accomplish. Most of the time I remember, most. For the times I don’t my wet-bottomed wife is quick to remind me as I pull her out of our toilet like a cork from a champagne bottle.
No, marriage is probably the best thing that ever happened to me, with exception to the first night of my honeymoon. And marriage doesn’t have to be all doom and groom.
Before I met Christine, I lived in a big scary house filled with absolutely nothing, save for a decrepit and dilapidated couch and a well-weathered rocking chair. What little possessions I had somehow amassed in my first three decades on planet Earth were stacked in large piles of interesting geometric shapes that had “future hoarder” written all over them.
As a reformed bachelor (and hoarder) I’ve taken to matrimony like a bird to flight, albeit an extremely clumsy and lumbering bird of prey. I’m a rank and file sort of guy in need of constant reminding and I’m not ashamed in the least to say I depend on my wife as a matter of survival.
There are too many examples to list.
Because of my rabid and well-documented mistrust of electric alarm clocks, I rely on Christine to wake me up in the morning with a nudge in the ribs or incessant wake-up calls to my portable telephone.
I once ate only one meal a day, which primarily consisted of some incarnation of pizza (pizza rolls, pizza bagels, pizza wraps, mini pizzas and sometimes pizza itself).
Now Christine prepares actual meals for me when she has the time to do it or isn’t stuck in the toilet due to my insolence toward bathroom etiquette.
Last week, Christine went clothes shopping with me since most of my apparel comes from the bargain bin of area Goodwill stores. We picked out several pairs of pants, but she made me use the changing room, which is a place any bachelor worth his weight in pizza rolls would never venture into. Things were going swell until I realized I wasn’t wearing any underwear. So after I tried the pants on, I bought them — along with some new underwear.
Sometimes when Christine is not around I revert back to some of the fundamental cornerstones of bachelorhood. Why use a paper plate to eat pizza rolls (pizza bagels, mini pizzas and so forth and so on) when I can use a magazine, like Good Housekeeping? Why wash the pair of pants I wore yesterday if I can wear them again today and hope nobody notices? Is there any reason to actually wash out the glass I just used when I can put it back in the cupboard without anybody the wiser?
These are all one of those “if a tree falls in the woods and nobody is around to hear it” kind of things.
So all of this marriage business isn’t nearly as hard as everyone makes it out to be. I’m having a blast with the girl of my dreams — just as long as I remember to put the toilet seat down.