It was a rookie mistake. I’m a boss lady. And a Virgo. It’s practically my birthright to organise everyone to do things my way.
Clients have paid me to organise and manage their lives successfully for going on two decades.
I would do that for my husband. Pro Bono, honey. You’re welcome.
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Turns out I’m a bossy woman.
It was his second marriage, my first. He was 56; I was 48. I had been single and independent for a long, long time and was an entrepreneur when we met. I was used to managing people and getting shit done. Maybe I’m a little Type A or a lot Control Freak. Jury is out.
It started off with the best of intentions. He was a little overweight. I wanted him to be healthy. I joined Weight Watchers and nudged him to join with me. It’ll be fun. We can go to meetings together and get coffee after.
I silently calculated his points. "Are you sure you still have that many points left after that burger you had for lunch?" He went to one meeting with me, wouldn’t let me install the app on his phone, and then...
Our first Christmas. So exciting.
I bought him two new pairs of casual shoes. Men’s shoes are frickin’ expensive, by the way. He wore those old boat shoes with everything — even with his navy suit to my nephew’s wedding. Ugh. And they were smelly. Good God.
Those leather loafers were so smart looking. My man was gonna be lookin’ good. He beamed when he opened the boxes on Christmas morning, expressed his undying gratitude, and set the boxes back under the tree. Every once in a while I sneak into his closet and dust them.
His son was in the throes of serious addiction issues.
When we became engaged, the counsellors at the treatment centre (way more expensive than men’s shoes) thought it would be a good idea for me to participate during family week. As an outside observer, I had a lot of good insights.