Right before the Holidays, I picked up my husband after he dropped off his truck to obtain new tires. I nonchalantly asked him how much it would be. In my mind I was thinking of a certain ballpark dollar amount. As I turned the car into the grocery store parking lot, he spits out this insane dollar amount. I used the word “insane” because that is the only way I know how to describe the P. Diddy cost of the tires.
I asked him if he was delusional. He replied with, “No. I just thought I would get a special kind of tire this time.”
“Oh really,Trump? Unless each tire has its own magical leprechaun, there is no way we are paying that for tires,” I answered.
After wandering soundlessly through the grocery store, he pipes up as we get back in the car, “I feel ill. I think I should go back and tell them I just want regular tires.” Good idea, now we can send our child to college.
We drive back to the tire store, and he begs me the entire way to go in there and make the change. I absolutely refuse. I will not be that wife. The one that everybody says, “Oh boy. You know she wears the pants in the family.” I will, however, be that wife in the car when our future of electricity bill paying is at stake. (Then I will vehemently deny it if anyone asks.)
After my husband goes in there and they nicely make the change, he comes back to the car and states loudly, “I feel much better. I just saved the family quite a bit of money.” I don’t verbalize that he was the one that almost put Christmas in jeopardy, I stay silent.
After driving in the car for about 15 minutes and having discussed many other topics, I see him start to giggle to himself. I turned to him and ask,”What?” He proceeds to tell me that he told the mechanic at the tire place that he told his wife what kind of tires he was getting and being that she was pregnant and hormonal, she freaked out. (I am not pregnant and as a matter of fact, enjoying a nice latte in the parking lot.)
I can see that he is quite proud of himself. Pulling the lie off and of course, it’s his favorite past time, making up stories that involve me as the star.
I sigh as I realize we are married, and this is how we get our kicks. I know this is okay because I love to hog the remote and watch reality shows, knowing there is a breaking story of a highway car chase on another channel. I particularly love the moment when I casually say, twenty minutes after it started, “Hey did you hear about that car chase?” The look on his face is priceless as he grabs the remote, exclaiming, “What? Omigod! Why didn’t you tell me?” I watch as he fumbles for the buttons on the remote, freaking out that he might actually miss something that will be re-run on every channel for the next 6 hours.
Pure pleasure.