Yesterday morning my father and step-mother stopped by to spend some time with Leta, and while they were here I showed them some of the projects we’ve completed on the house, like Leta’s new toddler bed and all the pictures and wall accessories we have finally hung in place, all courtesy of Jon’s ability to wield a screwdriver. Last night I called them to see how the rest of their day went, and my step-mother asked me if I had any idea how lucky I was to have married a man who knows how to fix things, and before she could get the whole question out of her mouth I had assured her that yes, I have every idea how lucky I am, and that if we’re being honest, his ability to fix things was the only reason I married him because he’s not very caring or loving at all.
She agreed that once you get to this stage in life, being loved and cared for doesn’t seem as important as whether or not the person living with you can change a diaper or fix a broken toilet. And so what if he’s good-looking, it won’t matter the first time you have to poop in a bucket.
My father was listening to all this silently, and then I heard him exhale heavily. “The world is very lonely,” he said dejectedly, “for men like me who are nothing but tall and sexy.”
