Husband as Luggage

Before we headed up to Maine on Wednesday evening, I let Stephanie know that there was one thing I wanted to do this weekend and that I was okay with her dictating our schedule for the rest of this mini-vacation so long as we got to do this one thing. I wanted to see the film adaptation of Rent, which came out this weekend. And, yes, you guessed it, we haven’t seen it yet. It wouldn’t anger me so much if we hadn’t basically spent the better part of our day lounging around on the couch at her mom’s house doing absolutely nothing but talking about what we were going to do today before we finally got on the road. Any sense of my feelings and what I want to do seems to disappear the moment we cross the Maine border, and if she wonders why I don’t want to ever move back there, that’s why. She disappears into the folds of her family and I end up feeling like a piece of luggage or, at best, a chauffeur.

So, we’re back home now and even after a nap she’s too tired to go out and that’s basically that. We won’t do the one thing I wanted to do after doing virtually everything she wanted to do. We still have Sunday ahead of us, but Sunday is for football (which she wants to watch just as much as me), so the weekend is basically over.

Smart-asses will say that I should get used to this, that my feelings and desires are unimportant next to the feelings and desires of my wife and my soon-to-be born child. Fine. I guess I should get used to it. I guess, in a way, I already am.