By Julie Grenness
All was well. Until that fateful day, your
significant male you loved so much took an early retirement, or was made
redundant.
At his workplace, there was a big farewell party,
an impressive gift, then, bingo!
Day one
Your male woke up at the same time, his circadian body rhythms shall probably never adapt to sleeping late in the mornings. You wish. After breakfast together, he ‘helps’ you with the dishes.
It is now 8am. “What’s for lunch? “your male asked. “Good question…” So, you decided to head off to the supermarket. Your male came with you. Disaster! After an hour in the supermarket, you have wandered the same old aisles so slowly. Your male has examined every item, and loaded an overflowing trolley with lots of groceries and delicacies, just like his mother used to cook. This little lot cost a fortune. When you arrived home together, your male could not lift bags of groceries from the car to carry them indoors. No, his back is aching. “From what?” your inner demon mutters.
Now you had to cook all this food. Great. Your male has bought a magazine displaying older males in sports cars with bikini clad nymphets. You wish.
“What’s for tea?” you heard him ask.
“A proctologist!” your inner demon was still muttering at you.
1 pm. After lunch. You sat down for a minute. The lounge room was strangely empty. Just then, you heard an almighty sound from your once tranquil garden. Bemused, you walked through the front door. Aghast, you gazed at once were roses and your annuals. Yes, your male was gardening, With his chain saw, which has been gathering dust in the shed for quite some time. A lone dog wandered past and piddled on the last remnants of your camellia. How apt!
Day two
Waking up was easy to do, listening to that snoring. Made the chain saw seem tame. “Off with old Brian this morning! He’s picking me up in half an hour. Won’t be long.” Thus spake your significant male, wiping up the pile of breakfast dishes. Brian appeared, you did not like to ask what they were up to. Great, you had time to vacuum the biscuit crumbs he had dribbled around his armchair, which was already indented where he sits. Suddenly, another ear-splitting roar filled the front yard. Apprehensive, you looked unfondly at your male astride a massive, black, very loud motor cycle. Leathers do not look good on your male’s beer belly.
“Harley-Davidson,
always there for a man’s mid-life crisis!’ There was that inner demon again.
But your male never travelled anywhere on his ‘chopper’. He spent the
afternoon, sitting on it and revving. Then it was too dark, so he comes
indoors, to sit transfixed by the television.
“What is for tea?” you wondered, channelling an inner Lucrezia Borgia.
Day three
9am. Your male wandered round the house, trailing after you, as you dusted and vacuumed.
“What are you doing” he asked. Silence was your best option. Then, after yet another lunch, a parcel was delivered, right to your door. A very large parcel, addressed to your male. You looked on, discouraged, as he unwraps an electric guitar!
“No, no, no!” you moaned. Your male has not one musical bone in his body, tone deaf. His singing was worse than his snoring, which is bad enough. Now he wanted to star in his own rock’ n’roll band. He started practising.
“How many times can he play, Bye, Bye Birdie? Badly!” your inner demon was really nagging now.
“Good question, good question…” Answer, heaps. Hour after hour of Bye, Bye Birdie… You sank into a chair and turned on your computer. Yes, you started reading about male menopause. Or andropause. Get ready for your male in the valley of the elderly loon.
You recalled your old grandma, “Got married for love, not for lunch!” Old joke, not so funny anymore. Yes, girls, it is called Andropause.
