‘I want you to come grocery shopping with me,’ she says, just as I’m about to put New York Red Bulls 3-0 up against over-rated Barcelona.
I don’t even dignify this with a response. I just throw the Wii remote against the fifty decorative pillows she has clogging up the couch.
‘I’ve a lot to get and I need your help,’ she continues, utterly oblivious to my frustration. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘I’ll do it in the morning with you,’ I say, very reasonably offering to put off until tomorrow what we can do today.
‘No, we are doing it now,’ she says in that high-pitched voice she resorts to in every argument. ‘And, by the way, you spend far too much time on that thing.’
‘That thing!’ I say feigning indignation.
‘Yes, that video game thing!’ she’s roaring now, having gone from zero to totally unreasonable and illogical in about six seconds.
‘Well, you may think I’m playing a video game here but I’m actually working on tactical formations and trying out new approaches to the sport.’
‘Really?’ She sounds like she totally doesn't believe me.
‘Yes, really. Not that I’d expect you to understand me investing time in my career.’
She pauses and gets this really strange look on her face before speaking.
‘Honey, I hate to break it to you but this is not your career. Coaching is your hobby. A costly hobby in time and money but a hobby nonetheless.’
I hate when she uses the word nonetheless. She always throws that in when she’s being all superior.
‘If you had any interest in my career at all, you’d be offering to play against me, to help me get better.’
‘Grown men should not be wasting their lives playing video games,’ she snorts with derision.
‘Yeah, yeah,' I say groping for a response. 'Grown women should be capable of doing the grocery shopping on their own. Isn’t that what feminism is supposed to be about? No men required.’
She walks out at that point and I start counting the days until I can start using practice again to get out of chores.
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