My husband doesn’t share chocolate with me anymore. Now he doesn’t match the color of his shirt with that of my dress. He no longer opens the car door for me.
We have been married for almost two years now. Yet we are addressed as “newly-weds” in our community. Only my husband and I know that our marriage has shed all characteristics of being called new. In India, I think couples are considered newly-married until they expect a baby. Luckily, our choice to conveniently postpone that decision is disguised under busy study schedules, thus enabling us to retain our prized title.
Of course, chivalrously opened doors and shared chocolates are not the only things different in our marriage. I no longer fret about the freshly-sprouted zit on my face or half-a-dozen additional pounds stuck on my buttocks and thighs. My lingerie is hiding in I-don’t-know-which corner of my wardrobe. I have to remind myself to pull out my Victoria’s Secret negligee but it spurs the same excitement in me as an Ann Taylor suit. Now when my smartheart tells me “I love you” in the kitchen, I think: Why isn’t he telling me something I don’t know when I’m in the middle of cooking food for him so he doesn’t get cranky.
A privilege of being married: I alone possess the exclusive rights to know that my hubby always leaves the lid of his shaving cream open and that he seldom puts worn socks in the laundry-basket (okay, now you know too).
New habits are also formed over time, mostly the bad ones. Requests become commands. Also as I reflect, I find that now we either talk about people or about our work. And how much we like to bicker. Sometimes when we haven’t fought for couple of days, we tend to pick up a quarrel just about anything for the fun of it. Maybe a part of us itches to converse with each other on a different subject. After the drama and the settlement, love emerges again and we feel purged until the next battle.
My parents and siblings, having seen only the sane side of my darling and obviously having seen all sides of me, think that he can never err. They keep telling me all the time how nice he is (as if I don't know my husband) technically robbing me of my right to complain to them about him after a ‘war.' They can’t imagine him to be anything but composed and thoughtful; and me to be anything but frantic and impulsive.
The “lived happily ever after” non-sense doesn’t exist, I feel. I have come to realize, to my dismay, that my dear husband is also a human-being with a short temper and a big ego. But the irritating part is that he is right more often than not (of course I haven’t told him this, neither do I intend to).
All in all, the lovey-dovey cream of the love cake gets skimmed by a monster called efficiency and “What will people think?” What remains is dry bread. Functional but unembellished.
But on some mornings when my eyes open before his and I see him cuddled into my bosom like a baby-vulnerable, seeking comfort-everything seems worth it. And then his eyes open and see the mess in the house that hasn’t been cleared from past week, and he starts a tiff with me on any unrelated trifle like how I never check my online bank account. But I know what’s actually bothering him are the laundered clothes not yet folded.
What if I want my sugar-daddy to regain his sweetness? I guess, there are some things marriage can’t buy.