I share a house with the Love Of My Life. She’s wonderful, so it’s just a nitpick for me to say that she refuses to do laundry. She goes on about how her stay-at-home-mom was always bent over the sink or an ironing board, slaving away, obsessed over getting oxford-cloth shirts just right and so on. So, as a matter of principle, she refuses to be like that. She is convinced that if she did one load of laundry, feminism would die, the 19th amendment would be repealed, PBS would start funding “The Man Show,” and all women would be forced to dress as Hooters waitresses.
I’ve assured her I do not want all women to dress as Hooters waitresses. Especially her mother. But it falls on deaf ears.
So I do the laundry. Last week, I was at the top of the stairs with a huge armload, so big I could barely see where I was going. I felt some article of clothing drop from the pile. Now, I could have left it there, gone down the stairs to the laundry room and come back for the dropped piece. But why make two trips, right? So I decided to kick the piece down the stairs.
Aiming for the imaginary uprights, I boot it. In a second, I hear a yowl of outrage. Love Of My Life chose that moment to come around the corner and got wapped in the face with a pair of sweatpants that had absorded the musk scent of my virile aroma. As a bonus, I had also shed the boxers when I shed the sweatpants, and these were included in the face-plant.
Now there is no way I could have done this on purpose, right? I couldn’t see where I was going. So she has to know it’s an accident, right? Right?
Wrong. Love Of My Life spent nearly the entire day fuming mad at me. And she has brought up the incident, not once, not twice, but three times, each time with a tone of severe accusation as if I had deliberately wrecked the Exxon Valdez for the sheer meanness of it.
Why, why don’t women just let things go? Why can’t my cars, or at least their warranties, last as long as chicks’ grievances? What steams me is that I know full well that if I had been the recipient of this face-wapping, she would have laughed all week about it and would be offended if I complained.