The Power Of Suggestion: The “Fooling Around In The Car” Edition
As exciting as this may sound, a lot of the “dates” that my husband and I go on have to do with picking our children up from various activities. For example, last night our oldest needed a ride home from band practice. I could have sent my middle son – which would’ve made a lot more sense to a lot of people – but my husband and I had already decided that we’d go together. And my husband is a little like my children in that once you say you’re going to do something, you are bound by all that is crazy in his brain to do it.
I don’t always understand this “I get stuck and I can’t seem to change my plans” way of thinking – at least not in this instance. It’s a different story if I have my heart set on buying a new pair of boots, or if my husband has said we might go salsa dancing. Cancelling either of these two things makes me want to slice human flesh – particularly male human flesh – to ribbons. Last night however, I would’ve been content to let someone else play taxi.
“Let’s just send Charlie (our middle). He can go,” I said.
“I thought WE were going?” my husband asked. He sounded sad. I figured an ulterior motive must be involved.
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter to me.” If he really wanted to go, then so be it.
“Oh, we’re going.” Something was definitely “up”, pun intended (which you will understand in a second). “Maybe we can even do something along the way.” I was right.
“What?” Honestly, I was hoping it had something to do with chocolate.
I was beginning to understand. “What? I wasn’t planning on doing that,” I laughed.
“But you were thinking about it.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“That’s the power of suggestion. You weren’t thinking about it before, but bam, now you are.”
Who did he think he was, some sort of neurolinguistic programming genius? Yeah, not so much. “Ummm, I’m still not thinking about it.” I tend to play hard to get. “After twenty-five years together, you should know that I don’t like being told what to do, nor do I like having things suggested to me. Either I think of something myself, or it’s not happening.”
“After twenty-five years, I know that I’m still hot for my wife, even though she’s as difficult as as donkey with a pickle up her ass.”
“Me difficult? I think you’re exaggerating.” Really, he’s not. I consider it a gift.
And that, dear readers, is the end of this “too bad for you husband” story.