)450056277 450056277 My day yesterday (8) started badly. I woke up, went for a swim, came home and found the womansulking at the table. I opened that crooked smile that she loves so much and proudly displayed the bread bag. But it wasn’t hunger that had my wife in a bad mood, it was the fact that I hadn’t remembered that it was International Women’s Day. But calm down. Keep reading it only gets worse.
The fact is that I had forgotten completely from that which is the most important day of any calendar. Realizing the extent of the damage my lapse had caused, I went to the cupboard, took a can of canned corn, opened it, threw some corn kernels on the floor and knelt down. I joined my hands in supplication and, because I consider asking for forgiveness more serious than apologizing, I begged her to forgive me.
To my surprise, however, as the syllables of forgiveness escaped my mouth, my wife turned redder and redder. Her lips twitched in a grimace of uncontrollable rage. Here at home, this gesture is historically called “the little mouth of hate”. The phenomenon precedes a period of 10ha 10h during which any argument on my part will be met with a barrage of disjointed accusations that will culminate in an immediate prison sentence in gulag of her heart.
I looked down and only then understood what had happened. My symbolic penance on the canned corn had caused a slurry of brine, starch and that little husk in the middle of the tooth, you know? There must be a word in German to express the fear arising from this well-meaning stupidity of mine. But stupidity. But well-meaning. I tried to amend it and say that you can leave it, I clean everything, yes, yes, even with my tongue! But it was no use. Apparently I’m too dumb to know how to use a cloth, water and soap.
While she was cleaning the floor, to the sound of the forbidden funk “are you thinking I’m your maid?!”, I stayed very quiet in my corner. I waited for her to finish to praise the work, but the praise went in one ear and out the other. Then I resumed the ritual of atonement. I knelt in the dry, joined hands in supplication, asked for forgiveness and took the opportunity to amend a “Happy Women’s Day, my love”.
For what! She threw the sponge at me, perhaps hoping to knock me down or give me a cartoon bump on my forehead, and then quickly amended that, first of all, this is not a day of celebration. “Then you’d better wipe that little smile off your face,” she said, mistaking my terrified expression for that of mockery (they really look alike). I stupidly and manfully thought it was a good time to ask if then I should have the singing telegram company cancel the tribute I had prepared for her (it was a bluff).
450056277 To which she responded with expletives never before heard in Christian language. Stomping so hard that her footsteps must have been recorded by some seismograph, she huffed and puffed, walked into the office, and emerged five minutes later with a book in her hands. It was Carmen Miranda’s biography and it had nothing to do with our fight. With her finger raised, as if it emanated a laser beam capable of dividing me into a thousand pieces, she taught me that Women’s Day was a bourgeois invention created to increase the sale of flowers, chocolates and anxiolytics, and that the correct thing is ” International Women’s Day of Struggle”.
For a suicidal moment I thought about joke about a women’s ring, but soon I was seized by something remotely like common sense and kept quiet. The silence that descended on us seemed to have brought angels of peace to Earth. Coincidentally, these angels soothed her just as I took a black velvet box out of my pocket. “Bourgeois invention was also created to increase jewelry sales,” she said. Growling, she put the ring on her finger.
Once harmony was restored housework, I asked her what I could do to make up for all the mistakes of the last half hour. Crying, she complained that I had never written her a text. “Lies!” I thought about exclaiming. After all, all the texts I write are for her, even the ones that don’t talk about her. But by then I think I had learned my lesson. She wiped away a fake tear that was running down her cheek, and I was forced to promise that I would write a text about her. This one you have in your hands.
“The woman” is a fictional woman. Nothing written here has anything to do with my wife in reality. At least that’s what she told me to clarify in this footnote.