Okay, so I have joined the official wives club, however disgusting that might sound. Membership is free, except all you need to qualify is one peeve about your man, and as a recent long Sunday night conversation seems to reflect, we are not running out of subjects any time soon.
The club got spontaneously incorporated on the aforementioned night, when we had come together for a surprise birthday party. As we were waiting for the action to start, it just so happened that wives of a feather flocked together. There were three of us ( married for varying periods from four years to three months), but being surprisingly linked by similarly afflicted partners.
From our conversation, and I won’t go into the details thereof to protect the interests of my sisterhood—it would appear that all our men were Neanderthals until they met us. Almost everything they did until that moment of divine intervention seemed to be wrong—they dressed wrong, they ate wrong, they hung out wrong, they partied wrong, they spent wrong, they shopped wrong, they even went to the wrong doctor—basically nine out of ten things they did seem to be wrong.
And since they took so easily to you and the makeover thereafter, you stopped to wonder.. did they know it all along? And what did that say about the prior influences in their life?
When I took a random check of the husband’s wardrobe, I found that he had about 200 extra-large t-shirts which all looked the same, five pairs of black jeans which looked the same, cargoes of varying lengths and textures, and one pair of blue 501s which thankfully, redeemed him.
I figured—this was an eighteen-till-I die wardrobe, and quickly bought him a few linen shirts and trousers—which got noticed and worked like magic. Trouble is, he wants to buy five sets of the same, so if a few go into the washing cycle, he can have stand-bys. Grrr!
But the biggest eyesore, co-member of the wives club pointed out was the surprise gift. Having been down that road once, I have a strict policy of choosing what I want or a cash-only policy for the lazy. And everyone who is someone in my life knows that.
Reason why I didn’t end up with a truckload of bad presents on my wedding (although I am still wondering what to do with a certain monstrous bar butler, a hideous tea set, and some remarkably ugly frames).
After a certain purple skirt episode, the husband knows better than to surprise me with gifts--this birthday, I took the husband shopping and bought myself a slinky black dresses. I shopped. He paid. Both were happy.
My fellow conspirator was not so lucky apparently, and was ‘surprised’ at her previous birthday by a yellow Manish Malhotra outfit, inspired by his Om Shanti Om retro collection—only that it had a hood, a zipper and sequins—a surefire no-brainer. Since she was convinced he meant really well, and couldn’t bear the thought of that much money down the drain, she even tried to get it exchanged, but didn’t succeed. The result? It had to be handed down to a sixteen year old with much pain and optimism.
Now he knows why there is never a good enough occasion to wear it.