Piece of Mind: His Clerical Assistant

I've figured something out: A man delegates duties with far more ease than does a woman. A woman thinks she has to do it all herself. A man easily identifies the things that are too menial for him to bother with and assigns them to someone else. A woman lives to serve, so she accepts these assignations without question... if she's really a sucker for many years, like me.

One day last weekend, my husband asked me the same question 5 times within a period of about 7 hours. That's what it took -- a figurative whop upside da head -- for me to realize he was using me as a file cabinet. I suddenly realized, after the 4th repetition of the same question, that he preferred to reference me for the info than make the effort to commit it to memory, himself. And I responded well to his training, like a skirted circus dog.

Gimme a hunk o' raw meat for being such a good girl.

Hey -- I'm no dummy. When I started to answer for the fifth time, it hit me that I was being used as a pocket encyclopedia.

Now I get why my husband is no good with song lyrics. Auditory repetition has no impact on a brain that is immediately on to more important matters... like football rankings. Incidentals like dates and times stick to his gray matter like a greased pig... unless of course that pig slipped through the grip of a defender for a first down.

Perhaps I should spin this new bit of knowledge in a more gratifying way. I should be flattered that he gives me so much credit for my encyclopedic retention. But, alas, I see too much of a parallel between this and his stated inability to find something in the fridge before he even has the door open all the way, even if he has to track me down in the shower to come find it for him. He perceives both as time-savers, pure and simple, and I suspect there's also that small element of their not being worthy of his exertion of effort. Me? I am nothing more than an implement of convenience and efficiency.

At the moment of my epiphany last week, I pointed all this out to him. And you know what he did, or I should say didn't, do? He didn't deny any of it. That right there, my dear friends, is supreme self confidence. He just gave me a sheepish grin that clearly indicated that I had caught him, that he was spanked.

And, you know, I would probably take the risk of being spanked, too, if I knew I wouldn't get caught for thirty-three years. Such are the gender dynamics of a longterm relationship -- mine, anyway.