All was well, until that fateful day. Your significant male, who is loved so much, took an early retirement (or was made redundant). At his workplace there was a big farewell party, an impressive gift, then, bam!
On the first day, your male woke up at the same time. His circadian body rhythms shall probably never adapt to sleeping late in the mornings. You wish. After breakfast together, he ‘helps’ with the dishes.
By 8am, “What’s for lunch?” is asked. It’s a good question, so off to the supermarket you head. Your male comes with you. Disaster! After an hour at the supermarket you have wandered the same old aisles slowly. Your male has examined every item, and loaded an overflowing trolley with groceries and delicacies, just like his mother used to cook. This little lot cost a fortune!
Arriving home together, your male could not lift bags of groceries from the car to carry them indoors. No, his back is aching. Your inner demon wonders, “From what?”
You now had to cook all this food. Great. Your male has bought a magazine displaying older males in sports cars with bikini-clad nymphets. He wishes!
“What’s for dinner?”
Your inner demon mutters, “A proctologist”.
After lunch, you sit for a minute. The lounge room is strangely empty. Then comes an almighty sound from the once tranquil garden. Bemused you walk through the front door. Aghast, you gaze at what were once roses and your annuals. Oh yes, your male has been ‘gardening’… With his chainsaw, which has been gathering dust for quite some time in the shed. A lone dog wanders past and piddles on the last of your camellias. How apt!
Waking up the second day was not a problem, given the snoring that was coming from beside you. It made the chainsaw seem tame.
“Off with old Brian this morning. He’s picking me up in half an hour. Won’t be long,” you male announces, wiping up the pile of breakfast dishes.
Brian appears, but you don’t ask what they are getting up to. You’re too busy vacuuming the biscuit crumbs that have been scattered around your male’s armchair.
Suddenly another ear-splitting road fills the front yard. Apprehensive, you look less than fondly at your male astride a large, black and very loud motorcycle. Leather does not look good on your male’s beer belly.
“Harley-Davidson… Always there for a man’s mid-life crisis!” There goes your inner demon again. Yet, your male never travels anywhere on his machine. He spends afternoons sitting on it, revving its engine though. When it became too dark, he moved indoors and could be found sitting transfixed in front of the television.
By 9am on the third day, your male wanders around the house trailing after you as you dust and vacuum. “What are you doing?” he continually asks. You greet him with silence. Then — after yet another lunch together — a parcel is delivered to the door. A very large parcel, addressed to your male. You look on, discouraged, as he unwraps an electric guitar!
“No, no, no!” you moan. Your male has not one musical bone in his body, tone deaf.
His singing is worse than his snoring, which is bad enough. Now he wants to star in his own rock ‘n’ roll band. He starts practising.
Your inner demons demands to know how many times he can play ‘Bye, Bye Birdie’. It turns out quite a lot. He was at it for an hour at least.
You sink into your chair and turn on the computer. You start reading about ‘male menopause’ — or andropause, as it’s more commonly known. You recall your grandmother’s words: “Get married for love, not for lunch!” That old joke doesn’t seem so funny anymore…