Travails Of A Nitpicking Wife

Today, I woke up at an outrageously early (for me) hour in the morning, mopped the floors, tried to get Woog out of bed, prepared the toast, tried to get Woog out of bed, did three loads of laundry, tried to get Woog out of bed, percolated some coffee, and tried to get Woog out of bed. Today I had a nutty day at work. My document formatting decided to go all Salvador Dali on me at the printer. The boss didn't help matters any by heaping on some extra-curricular work for his Rotary district. Today, my back hurts like the very devil (in fact, it seems the devil himself is having a jolly good time right now, pounding away with a mallet).

But all the above has nothing to do with what happened just a couple of minutes ago (and as introductions go, I would say this puts the raisin atop the moldy cupcake). I texted Atch asking if he would be picking me up from work. No answer. I called his office. He was out. I dropped him a ring, and he finally texted back. Oho, so there you are.

I remember, more than five years ago (although it gets more and more foggy each time), when he would text me constantly, every hour on the hour. How are you? What are you doing? Have you eaten? What are you up to? You want to go out tonight? And in the evenings when I got home from work, he would call.

He was persistent. He was consistent. I was a very wanted woman then. In demand, all so very often, and all the time by him.

And then we got hitched.

These days, I call him and text him: What time do we expect you home? Are you eating dinner here? Are you picking me up? Hey, what's up with you? You still alive?

I realize this may just very well be the universal language of love carried around by a majority of married couples, particularly, of the wives - those previously cozened and cherished denizens of some seventh heaven who now find themselves deposited unexpectedly amongst old and comfortable possessions (e.g., old shoes, a patched worn-out easy chair, the battered wallet), to be conveniently forgotten until otherwise needed (e.g., "Aifee, where's my mug/shirt/car keys/cellphone?", "Wanna bang you, Aif. *pant-pant-pant*")

Whatever happened to the "want-to-know-where-you-are-what-you're-doing-will-die-if-I-don't-see
-you-want-you-right-now-heart-on-my-sleeve" guy? Of course, I get this sort of flattering treatment from my kids all the time, but still, it isn't the same.

"Atch," I asked when he picked me up that night, "do you remember when you used to text me everyday to ask what I ate for breakfast...?"

He looked at me, both puzzled and exasperated, "Aif, I know what you had for breakfast. We eat breakfast together, remember?"

He was missing the point, as usual. So I jumped straight into the fray by reminding him of how sweet he used to be, constantly calling me, etc..etc...

Still, he managed to looked flummoxed, probably wondering why, at the end of the workday, fresh from all the stress, cross-eyed from reading heaps documents and solving all manner of crises, did his wife decide to dredge up the long-forgotten (and he has forgotten) past.

"Uh, Aif. I see you everyday. Why do I need to call you?"

*Sigh* Was he being honestly clueless, or was he trying to wiggle out of this one? I decided to let it go. Figure out how to re-work the romance back into our marriage one way or another (even if I have to club him over the head to do it).

"'Wuv you, Aif, " he said after a time.

You better.

*** Latest bulletin on Project Resurrect-the-Romance:

The car died the next day, and he escorted me across the street (walking on the danger side, yet!) and waited with me until I was able board a jeepney to work. Then he crossed to the opposite side to ride a jeep of his own. How gallant, my errant knight in rusty armor. I texted him, "Thanks Atch." and he texted back, "You're welcome."

I realize I may be settling for peanuts at this point, but hey, it's a start.