When I got married my life changed forever. I was a drug addict and an alcoholic and my sweet Prince Charming was taking me on for life anyways. Even when I tried to give the ring back shortly before the wedding. He refused. His exact words were, “I want to create an environment where you can become the woman of God he created you to be.”
I know, ladies. Swoon.
And so I did it. I took the dive. Hurled myself down that aisle. Stood in front of somewhat bewildered friends and family (on both sides). Said all the vows. All of them. In front of God. You know, the Great I Am. Creator of Life. And I swore my allegiance to this smooth talking, tall drink of water.
These vows included death. You would assume that pretty much takes the cake. Whoever came up with these things made sure they had all the bases covered. What I wouldn’t give to have been a fly on the wall of that meeting.
“Larry, we’ve covered all the tricky stuff about bad times, sickness and financial struggles. But I feel like we’re leaving something much more crucial out.”
“Death, Fred, you forgot death.”
I’ve been married for over seven years, people. And it’s amazing. Nick fulfilled his promise. Within a year of our wedding, I was clean and sober. And it was not easy but he stuck by me.
But the vow consortium was wrong. They forgot something. A fairly critical part of the contract.
Now listen closely, I would marry my husband again a billion times over but I have an issue to pick with Larry and Fred. What about the Questions? The dozens and dozens of daily questions. So many that you don't even realize you are answering them after a while. Like, "How old are our children?"
This. This is how I know that a crafty group of men came up with marital vows.
Because they failed to mention the one thing that ACTUALLY has the potential to end this magical union of lies: All. The. Questions.
Ladies, can I get an amen?
Sometimes I look at this man who is absolutely brilliant and I think, “How did you survive before we met?” And then I remember he has a mother. Apparently, without knowledge or consent, I picked up the question baton when we got married.
For those of you who are confused as to the issue, namely the men, let me help you out. I had no idea that I would spend the rest of my days as the memory, eyeballs, dictionary, and never ending fount of knowledge that I have become. I think being married has made me feel far more intelligent than I probably am.
Exhibit A:
“He just walked up to me and said, “Do you know where my computer is?”
This very moment. As I was typing the last sentence. Now he is sitting on the couch next to me asking me to call it. Because he doesn't know where his phone is either.
It writes itself, my friends.
And I solved the problem without even moving. I simply asked him when the last time he had it was. His response, “I think it’s up by the bed.” Boom.
Sometimes the questions are about important things. Life stuff. I can get with that. You know what I can’t get with? A hundred daily questions about the mundane. The little stuff. Stuff that I’m starting to answer in the same way that I would for my toddlers.
Women, we have become enablers. Foolishly answering the, “Is there anything to eat?” as our supreme leader stands in front of a full fridge, with door open. Or the, “When is my Birthday?” because they can’t be bothered to do the math.
But the one that has put me over the edge is directions. We are in the car. We are driving somewhere familiar. Oh, say, his place of employment. The place he goes almost every day. By himself. And it’s inevitable. We miss an exit. He turns to me, “Where do I go next?”
I’ll tell you where to go.
So I’ve started enforcing a question limit each day, which he of course thinks is a quota. Like it's a challenge to beat. And depending on how I’m feeling on that particular day, I will give him ten questions. When he gets to eight I remind him that he’s almost out and to choose wisely with his pending query. Especially if it’s still early in the day.
I mean, you don’t want to use, “Where is the remote?” when later on in the day you are stuck on the phone with your mother in law (my dear, chatty mother) and you desperately want to ask me to take the phone.
What’s that, honey? A question? I can’t hear you. All questions have been redirected to tomorrow.
Even if you did save my life. For as much as I love you, if you ask me one more thing, I may relapse. And I didn’t like myself very much as a junkie. So you know what I want you to create now? An environment with less questions. Because I want this to last.
So there it is. If you are getting married soon, make sure to add “In self-sufficiency and all the mind numbing questions” to the roster of vows. You’ve been warned. You can thank me later.
*Disclaimer: You have to have a sense of humor and understand satire to read this post. If not, I can’t help you.
**Disclaimer: This post is husband approved.
***Disclaimer: Any response of, “But wives do this…” will immediately be disqualified as not part of this exercise.