This morning, I was showering when I heard Sid moving around in the bathroom. Knowing that he would get downstairs before me and worried that he would start breakfast, (and because I’m a woman, and we women like to control things) I called out,
“When I get downstairs, I will make boiled eggs and muffins.”
“If you do that, you will the Delight of My Day, as you were yesterday morning.” (I had made him 2 juicy cholorphyll-packed sandwiches then.)
Being the devious woman I am, I had to test his love.
“And what if I don’t make your breakfast?” I asked sweetly, the slightest hint of challenge in my voice.
“Well, then, you will still be the Delight of My Day.”
“That doesn’t really motivate me to get downstairs and make breakfast,” I mutter.
And even as I mutter, I realize the opposite is true. It is BECAUSE he doesn’t nag me, pressure me, and acts like he loves me even when I slack off on housewifely duties that I WANT to do even more for him.
I wonder if he knows his own brilliance when it comes to the pyschology of his woman’s brain.
Even if he does know what he’s doing, I am helpless to change the fact that I’m caught in his spell.
That is why I still drag clothes down the stairs and outside to the clothesline on sunny days. Why I smile when I hear those ridiculous songs he wrote, like “Purple Bird.” Why I mostly make his favorite plain ordinary cheesecake instead my favorite chocolate cheesecake. And why I don’t gripe too much when he uses my milk jars to do his dirty work.