As the fateful August holidays approach, many married women suffer from fits of restlessness, a syndrome that has not yet been studied by the WHO: and now what do I do for a month with this man, whom it is legally appropriate to call husband?
The first impulse –and no reader should feel guilty about it– is to leave it at a gas station –you go pay, darling–, with a sign on the chest: “My name is Pepe, I don’t bite –except if they serve me watermelon gazpacho– and I watch pre-season friendly matches, Getafe included”.
Before you get to this point, have you thought about recycling it? Recycling is giving a new life to objects with no apparent utility but which, properly treated, can satisfy other needs.
A traditional method is to assign him an Excel with tasks every day of August, so that he does not have time for his occurrences. Such tasks often cause him to grunt and increase his calling to rondinaire. Planting the umbrella first thing in the morning, going to buy croissants, making him wait to go down to the beach or taking care of the pool, taking him out of meal times, waiting for him to take a sexual nap, dressing him to look good at wedding dinners…
All of this – which is fine – carries the risk of bringing out the worst in yourself and saying:
“I’m looking forward to getting back to work!”
Or that he signs up for Tinder and the very donkey gets teased (rare, by the way).
Have you tried giving him surprising tasks and willingly doing the homework?
-Pepe, say something exciting to this nice divorcee who sunbathes and whom you look at so much…
Why don’t you play that injury friendly with the singles team this year? For me…
–Pepe, invite that thirty-year-old girl, the one with the watsaps, on Saturday and let her stay the night and I’ll laugh for a while.
The strategy is to dislodge him and make his summer longings turn into a mountain. Once anguished with the fear of putting yourself like Laporta, in tolerance and free will, you have a blank check. A happy husband in August.
