"Have you heard the one about the woman whose husband thought he was a chicken? She took him to a therapist who said he had a fool-proof way of curing the husband. The wife looked thoughtful for a moment and declined the offer. She said she didn't want to lose the eggs."
That was the story my beloved told me last saturday. We were in the middle of a typically stressful morning, this one involving a dying car. She broke down weeping and said that it was just impossible to do this, as it colored every conversation we had, even those about the practicalities of dealing with a dead car.
Which was ironic since FLR was the last thing from my mind at that moment.
But I said the only gentlemanly thing to say, which was, "Well, then forget about it." "But you'll be miserable, she said." I said, "We'll talk about it in a week or a month when it's a better moment."
And my little dream died.
So I wasn't a total jerk about it, and I said that I intended to keep doing the more around-the-house things that I should have been doing all along, but laundry became an "us" task instead of as much of a "me " task as she would let it be (which was never 100%). Ditto for bill paying and animal care and kitchen care. So we were pretty much back to status quo ante, with me picking up some of the slack that (frankly) had resulted from my having had a job with a long commute (but that was a long time ago).
PSA: How I beat the Twitter shadowban
16 hours ago