On Death & Survival
So, my wife gave me permission to die last night.
Yeah, there’s a f*cked up conversation to have just before bedtime, right?
See, I am very much a nurturer. I am in my element when I have someone to take care of. Which works out, because my lady love is at her best when someone is doting on her. Well, she’s actually at her best when everyone is doting on her, but you get the picture.
That old saw about all the good ones are either married or gay? Not gay. But otherwise, I’m that guy. I cook dinner, I fetch drinks, I run out to the store at the drop of a hat. I even do the grocery shopping. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I love doing these things for her. It is my nature to want to do them.
But sometimes I’ll come home, having just done the grocery shopping the day before, and find my wife standing in the middle of the kitchen . . . fridge, freezer, and every cabinet in the pantry standing wide open . . . looking for food.
And when I say looking, I mean looking and not finding any.
On the rare occasion that I have to work and didn’t have time to get dinner together I invariably get a call asking me what she can fix. A call that usually manages to get around to whether or not we have enough money in the account that she can just take the kids to a restaurant instead of having to cook.
So, it’s pretty much inevitable that I tease my wife about her dubious survival skills.
Hey, I don’t expect to be able to drop her butterball naked in the middle of a forest somewhere and have her whip up roast boar and truffles. But I firmly believe one should be able to forage for food in a packed pantry or a full refrigerator/freezer with minimal effort.
In any case, last night she assured me that if I wanted to die she would be okay.
Yup, that’s pretty much how it came out. No segue, no transitional phrases. I couldn’t tell you what we were talking about before that. That was pretty much thrust from my mind with the discovery that the woman I love is okay with me kicking the bucket – that whenever I’m ready to go she’s ready to have me gone.
By this time, she’s babbling on about grocery shopping, and I just have to stop her.
“So, wait a minute. Did you just give me permission to drop dead? “
Loving mate that she is she started rolling about on the bed laughing her pretty naked @ss off, and when she could finally breathe again did her best to assure me that she only meant that if the unthinkable happened and I were to park myself under a Buick and never come home that she would be capable of finding food in the house since she would be doing all the grocery shopping.
I would have been more convinced if at any time during this conversation
she had been able to stop laughing.