chatting, life

Sunday Husband

Julia and I drove back from the Mornington Peninsula today, stopping for some selfies in front of some landmarks without reading anything about why they were landmarks, then getting back in the car for more TLC and Ginuwine and Christina Aguilera.

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We even cleaned some landmarks first.
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Still don’t know what Arthur’s Seat is about.

We talked at length, of course. Endless chat. What topics did we cover? Well, we talked about the topics we also talked about at length yesterday, but today added in new reflections on the existing reflections.

Layered.

Today I also told her about the Sunday Husband. This is an idea that Annie & I developed as a quick-fix solution for all of life’s problems. In my head it was a foolproof plan, but Julia has either got a psychology degree or just she just talks like she does, and she did manage to find a few holes.

The idea behind the Sunday Husband is that it will save time and money. In short, Annie and I will share a husband. We haven’t thought too carefully or critically about how this will achieve either of our goals about saving time and money, but doesn’t it just sound quite economical? Like it’s good for the environment, somehow.

Sundays with Annie are one of the things I miss most about when we lived in the same flat. They would occur after our Big Saturday Nights, the ones where we’d put on our town outfits and go to Boogie Wonderland and Molly Malones and Kitty O’Sheas to drink Guinness and do weird shots and then go to Burger King at 3am.

Our remedy was tried and tested. On Sunday we’d get up and snoogle up on her lavish couch with blankies, laptops, phone chargers, and food.

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I promise you, some days it’s really all I could manage.

We’d bark at our flatmate until he’d begrudgingly walk down to Dominos to fetch our order (we’d either slip him a $5 note or shout him a cheese-lovers for his effort). As soon as he was out of the door and unable to roll his eyes at us in person, we’d text him from the couch with more requests. Annie could never find the right drink to cure her hangover, and it was a quest that she threw herself into with determined vigour. Spirulina, coffee, water, powerade, chocolate milk. She tried them all. None would work. So she’d drink a quarter of each one and then fall asleep sitting upright, while I played Freecell on my laptop and watched endless Jason Statham movies in the dark.

But, back to the husband. So, because we both miss our lazy Sundays so much, we decided in the future when we’re both married to the same man, we’d make him leave us alone that day. He’d begin his day by visiting the farmers market to buy flowers and coffees, and he’d nip back into the house to drop them off. He wouldn’t make a fuss, would just whisper “I’m not here, I’m not here!” and leave again. Maybe a kiss on the forehead as he left.

But then what? Where is he going? Perhaps he could he play sports, we pondered. Maybe he could play a sport then go spend time with the other sport players? Yes. Away all day. Goodbye husband.

So I told all of this to Julia, who was confused.

“He’s a Sunday Husband?” “Yes”. “Does that mean he’s only your husband on Sundays?” “I guess.” “And he doesn’t even give you a proper kiss, just on the forehead?” “I suppose so”.

“So he’s sort of just… a delivery man? Who oversteps the bounds of what’s appropriate and sexually harasses you?”

Like I said, either a psychology degree or talks like she has one. But she has a point. Maybe we just need an Uber Eats driver and a polite request in the Special Instructions field. We’ll work on it.

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