Thursday, March 24, 2016

Wife Puts Foot Down

My wife put her foot down. Her bare foot. Right into my foot. I was wearing shoes.

“Mrrraaahhh!” she screamed as she hit the floor in pain. After heavy examination of her toe, she got up and actually punched me in the arm. Then she flipped me off with dual fingers and no remorse, blaming me for what she did -- this, during the season of Lent, when some of us are repenting for our sins.

My father-in-law warned me before marrying his daughter that when a woman is not in the forest, the man there is still wrong.

“I guess I better be more careful about where I don’t move from now on,” I told my wife as she accused me of “permanently injuring” her foot.

“Why were you just standing in the hall?” she asked.

“Because you were coming the other way,” I answered. “I stopped so you could pass.”

“Who stops in the middle of a hallway?”

“I moved to the side. You charged right into me.”

“Didn’t you see I was in a hurry?”

“Yeah,” I said, “which is why I moved to the side and stopped for you to go by.”

“Aren’t you gonna say sorry?”

“Sorry for what? For you crashing into me?”

“My foot hurts,” she said.

“Let me see it.”

“Not until you say sorry,” she demanded.

There was no way I was going to say sorry. It was a matter of principle.

So my wife invited her dad to dinner -- a possible threat to make me say sorry to his first-born.

“You brought him home,” he told her, “he’s your problem.”

“You let him marry me,” she said.

“I warned him when he asked for my blessing.”

“That’s not what happened.”

I jumped in. “If I may . . .”

My father-in-law gave me the floor.

“There were only two of us there that day,” I said. “And the two of us are in total agreement about what happened when I asked for the blessing.”

“This whole thing,” my wife complained, “is not going the way it’s supposed to go. My foot is hurt right now because of my husband, and he’s not apologizing like he should.”

“Might I remind you,” I said to my wife, “that this is the season of Lent. As part of my penance, I’m going to offer an unwarranted act of goodwill to you by forgiving you for blaming me.”

My wife was not going to let me win that easily. She was determined to make me say sorry for what she did or she’d make me sorry for what my parents did 38 years ago.

“You didn’t make enough dinner for me?” I asked. That came first. Next it was, “Why am I excluded from Easter plans?” Then, “Now you’re sleeping on the couch? Oh, I’m sleeping on the couch.”

All this because I wouldn’t say sorry? Because I wouldn’t take the blame for my wife ramming into a planted object in the hallway?

You’re darned right I wasn’t going to apologize. I didn’t do anything. If I was going to say sorry, I was going to have to do something to say sorry for.

“Let me see your toe,” I said.

It wasn’t sprained. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t even red or swollen.

This is the toe that hurts?” I asked.

“Careful,” she said. “It hurts.”

I yanked.

“Mrrraaahhh!” she screamed. She punched me in the arm again. And she flipped me off with dual fingers and no remorse again.

Finally I was OK saying it -- “I’m sorry. And you’re welcome. Your toe’s fixed. It was jammed.”

Yet, as some commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus Christ as they do this time of year, my wife took it upon herself to crucify me through Easter and beyond.

-April 2014

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