This weekend my wife and I had a date to meet some friends for a barbecue. It took me about 2.06 minutes to get ready. (Swap the sweatpants for khakis, the T-shirt for a polo, make sure I didn’t have anything stuck in my teeth.) Not so straightforward for my wife.
Mindful of escaping her space while she “decides on an outfit,” I was killing time downstairs as I waited for her. If I hadn’t known what was going on above me, I might worry construction workers with the wrong address were gutting the second floor. I heard slamming dresser drawers and closet doors, trudging feet, mutterings and sighs peppered with curses. “I hate every g&*$#@n piece of clothing I own!” she yelled. Not sure if that required a response from me, I wisely observed my right to remain silent.
But then, it got trickier. We were close to being late (I hate being late), and her monologic mumblings seemed to shift into the dialogic sort. “Man, have I gained weight,” she announced. She said this at the top of the stairs to be sure I heard.
Silence from me. I ran the tap and filled a glass with water so she’d think I couldn’t hear her.
“Geez, I have really packed on the pounds lately,” she persisted.
I cleared my throat and rustled some newspaper.
Her tone approached the annoyed pitch. “Rich, are you listening? I said I look stupid in my clothes. I can’t find anything to wear. I’ve gained weight!” Not usually a whiner, she practically wailed.