What?

I’m wearing my indignation like an itchy wool sweater today. I might take it off later if it becomes too uncomfortable. But for now, I’m wearing it like a sackcloth, martyr style. You see, I hate golf. Not so much the sport itself, although I’m no great fan, but rather, my husband playing golf. He actually hadn’t played for quite awhile, but I knew he loved it, and I have encouraged him to play more. So now he is. I think that I had quietly hoped that he wouldn’t – that he’d choose to spend Sunday with me and the kids rather than golf, but I was mistaken.

And every time he prepares to play, or comes back from playing, I try not to make a big deal out of it. And every time, I do. Just little passive-aggressive remarks about how much time he’s expecting me to spend with the kids all alone, and how it’s my weekend too, and how now I get to spend six or twelve, or more hours doing something I like (which I never do, since I don’t want to get away, I want him to be here), until he finally blows up and I say all innocent “What?”

And I did it again last night. I hate myself for doing it. I just can’t seem to keep my mouth shut. And then I hate Arthur for not saying the right things when I complain. He doesn’t know what the right thing to say is, of course, and I can’t tell him. (Boys are really stupid, but that’s a different post). So I’m going to tell you, faithful bloggers, and if Arthur happens to read it then it’s out of my control.

I want Arthur to want to spend his free time (his play time) with me – not just the daily routine stuff. And if Arthur has to give in to his friends and go golfing, I want him to propose time that he will be spending just with me – like a date. And he can’t make the plans after I’m pissed off – he needs to have them at the ready – and within a couple of days of the golf game. I don’t want him to suggest that I make plans with the wives of the guys he’s going golfing with – that’s just a way of dismissing me. I’m not saying that I don’t want to spend time with my girlfriends, I just don’t want to spend time with Arthur’s friends’ strange wives. Also – there’s a huge difference between occupying myself and the kids while Arthur’s gone and actually having plans that I look forward to. I don’t want to be the person he wants to escape from but with.

God, I sound like one of those whiney wives I make fun of. Just a moment of weakness that I won’t repeat. This stays between you and me, ok? Now, shhhh, Arthur’s coming and I’ve got to take off this fucking awful sweater.