I want my wife back.
For the past ten weeks, she has been travelling, promoting your products, training your customers, and doing your business. And I am becoming increasingly concerned for her health and sanity. And now, her work is starting to affect me too.
So let’s talk, you and I. Ah wait; I’ve heard too much from you, albeit indirectly. So I’ll talk. You listen.
So far, she has endured thousands of miles of air travel, with all the fun of today’s security checks and attendant delays to accompany her chronic case of jet lag. She has driven unfamiliar rental cars on unfamiliar roads in and between unfamiliar cities through winter conditions that she would normally refuse to drive in at home.
She has, because of lack of time and/or lack of being at home, been forced to give up the music lessons she was enjoying, and the hobbies she liked to pursue. She has missed celebrations with friends and family because of her absences, which are frequently longer than they need to be. Why? Because of your insistence on her staying over Saturdays, so as to get the cheapest flight.
She is physically worse than she was, because of the boxes of equipment you force her to take with her. I haven’t yet heard a sensible reason why she cannot courier them to her destination, other than, “The company won’t let me.” So she lugs four to six heavy boxes of your equipment to the airport, and checks them. Then she lugs them off at the other end, and into rental cars, hotel conference rooms, and taxis. You may not allow her to courier your precious boxes, but you seem to think it is normal for her to become bruised and aching from all the physical work involved in transferring them everywhere.
And when she is home, she might as well be a zombie. Thanks to the jet lag she has acquired in pursuit of your business, I watch her fall asleep sitting up on the sofa at six p.m., only to be awake at three in the morning, unable to fall back asleep and worried that if she does, she will be late for work at your office, where you insist she be if she is in town.
Even if she arrived back late Sunday night, you want her in the office early Monday morning, ready to work, cheerful and happy. And neither fall asleep nor let her irritation show at her desk, of course; you have impressed upon her that her episodes of sleep and periods of irritability are reserved for her time with me, her husband.
And speaking of me, what do I get for all this? Why, I get to wait by the phone so my wife can call in and tell him where she is tonight. If she didn’t, I’d often have no idea: “I don’t know exactly where I’ll be for the next few days, but I’ll call and let you know” is a sentence that is no longer unusual in our home. Of course, I get to take all the other phone calls, make the excuses, and remember to pass on the messages when she next calls in from wherever.
Look, folks, I’m getting pretty damn tired of this. I’m not her travel agent, keeping up with alterations in travel itineraries. I’m not her secretary, phoning her friends because she has had yet another schedule change in the field and will be unable to make a much-anticipated gathering. I am not her therapist, listening to how a delayed flight or schedule change somehow caused yet more stress for her. And I am certainly not her keeper, making sure that an aching, jet-lagged, exhausted, half-asleep woman can get from the sofa to our own bed on the rare occasion when she does get home.
I am her husband, you greedy, selfish bastards. And I want my wife back.