Last week I wrote a post about the unrealistic expectations and laziness of men when it comes to leaving the house. You can read it here. One male blogger, incensed by my nonsense, sent me this response. Read it and weep.
Last Sunday you told me that we would be going to your Sister’s house this Saturday, for lunch. I grunted my acknowledgement and forgot about it instantly.
On Monday, you mentioned that we would go for a walk in the woods while we were at your Sister’s at the weekend. I filed that under ‘that’ll-be-nice’ and gave it no further thought. We only need legs to go for a walk and I have two of those. I considered myself ready for the challenge.
On Tuesday, you said how excited you were about going to your Sister’s at the weekend and I distinctly remember asking what day we were going, why we were going and what we were going to do while we were there. You did a special womanly sigh and informed me that we were going on Saturday, for a walk and for lunch. “What time will lunch be?” I asked, “Lunch time, or later?” It’s important to know the difference between a ‘meal’ which can be served at any time, and ‘lunch’, which should be at 12 O’clock. I’m very set on this detail. “Lunch” you replied.
On Wednesday you asked me what time we needed to set off in order to get to your Sister’s for lunch on Saturday. I remember thinking to myself that this was a remarkably strange question considering that I didn’t even know we were going to your Sister’s, not to mention the fact that we have both lived in the same respective houses for at least six years and we have visited them at least four times a year ever since. Surely by now you should have got the hang of how long it takes? We don’t even use the sat-nav anymore. “Half past ten,” I say, “eleven at the latest if we are to get there in time for lunch.”
On Thursday, you had a day off talking specifically about your Sister but instead spent an hour banging on about how you don’t have anything nice to wear at the weekend, and the general lacking in your ridiculously over-stuffed wardrobe at the moment. I told you that fourteen different outfit combinations looked lovely on you but no actual decisions were made.
On Friday, you pointed out that if we were to leave the house for half past ten the next morning, then we was really going to have to get on with it when we got up. You mooted the idea of setting an alarm but shelved it in favour of a gamble that the kids would wake us instead. I reminded you how long it always takes you to get ready and that we really did need to be away in time because your Sister’s kids would eat all the sausage rolls again, if we were late. You nodded in agreement – that particularly cold and food depleted visit has never actually been forgotten nor forgiven.
For six days you have nagged me about this visit. For six days you have been planning it.
So why is it, love, that with twenty minutes to go you are still sat in your PJ’s with your nose deep in Twitter and need me to tell you to get ready?
An hour ago I mumbled that perhaps you could possibly have a shower first, on account of how much faffing this always entails, and you shrugged me off. I looked over at the kids half an hour ago and I thought you were leaving it a bit late to get them ready. I shook my head in disbelief at your apparent lack of thought.
It only takes me five minutes to wash my pits, sack & crack in the shower (I’m nothing if not thorough), five minutes to dry and throw on the closest pair of trousers and shirt to the end of the rail, and another five minutes to follow you around as you use your special female Voodoo magic to locate my otherwise lost phone, keys, socks and sunglasses.
Fifteen minutes – that’s all it takes me to be ready! I’m ready with five minutes to spare and where are you? Upstairs, messing about with the kids now that you’ve finally noticed they aren’t ready.
Will you please get a move on? Those greedy nephews of yours will be tucking into the garlic bread soon.