Husband was late for work the other day; he’d somehow managed to leave the headlights on and of course the battery went dead and he had to wait for roadside assistance.
I have no idea why he turned the headlights on at all, since our car (like every car from this century) has the ones that come on automatically when needed and turn off when you turn off the car, but whatever. Believe it or not, that’s not why we’re here.
We’re not even here to discuss the fact that he couldn’t recall if we had roadside assistance as a benefit, and on which service, and had to ask me about it, then ask me for the log-in information for three different accounts. What I’m worked up about is so irritating, it eclipses even the annoyance of being interrupted every two minutes with, “okay, I just asked (yet another thing) to send a one-time code to your phone… can you read it off to me?” (I asked, and he swore the 30 minutes he spent on all of this was faster than just calling each of them. I’m still not clear how.)
It happened the next time I got in the car…
HIM: Oh, and can you try setting the clock? I couldn’t get it to work…
ME: (side eye)
HIM: I know it’s this button (points) but do you hold it down or just …
ME: (presses button, quickly adjusts time)
HIM: Okay, I tried pressing it and it didn’t do anything!
HIM: You’re just better at it than I am.
Some of you will recognize this issue—I told you, it’s all the clocks!
But the “you’re better at it” angle—that’s new.
And I’m worried what it might mean.
Because women have been using that line since basically forever—I’m pretty sure cavewomen grunted it at their cavemen to get them to haul their pile of mastodon bones out to the curb—to convince our partners to do things anyone can do. And if he’s using it against me…
They’re on to us.