As the fateful August holidays approach, many married women suffer bouts of anxiety, a syndrome not yet studied by the WHO: and now what do I do for a month with this man, whom I am legally entitled to call my husband?
The first impulse – and no reader should feel guilty for this – is to leave him at a gas station – you go and pay for it, love – with a sign on the sideboard: “My name is Ramon, I don’t bite – unless they serve me watermelon gazpacho – and I watch pre-season friendly games, including Getafe”.
Before reaching this end, have you thought about recycling it? Recycling is giving new life to objects with no apparent use but which, properly treated, can satisfy other needs.
A traditional method is to assign him an Excel with tasks every day in August, so that he does not have time for his occurrences. Often, these tasks cause him to growl and increase his rondinaire vocation. Plant the parasol early in the morning, send him to buy croissants, make him wait to go down to the beach or have him clean the pool, take him out of mealtimes, wait for a sexual nap, dress him to shine at wedding dinners…
All this – which is very good – carries the risk that he will bring out the worst in himself and say:
-Eager to get back to work!
Or sign up for Tinder and have the hair pulled (rarely, by the way).
Have you tried entrusting him with surprising tasks and having him do the homework willingly?
-Ramon, say something exciting to this cute divorcee sunbathing and whom you look so much at…
– Why don’t you play that injury friendly with the singles team this year? For me…
-Ramon, invite that thirty-year-old girl on Saturday, the one from WhatsApp, and let her stay to sleep and I’ll laugh for a while.
The strategy is to displace him and get his summer longings to be fulfilled on a mountain. Once distressed with the fear of becoming like Laporta, in free will, you have a blank check. A happy husband in August.
