Does every pot really have its lid?
In search of the right one, I discovered some strange specimens. Take my only wife as an example. He grew up in a very decent family home. My mother-in-law’s entire life was centered on her husband. He insisted on fixed meal times, all meals, of course, freshly cooked.
He spoke, she obeyed – or more accurately, left him in that faith.
His favorite dish was lentil soup, because she tastes better than her mother. In fact, it was a ready-to-serve meal whose contents she subtly refined. The home-baked Sunday cake was usually bought secretly. She was so perfect that her husband desperately had to look for mistakes in order to hit the table. Like the one time he fiercely chastised his other half for serving boiled potatoes in too big pieces. This cheerful and very dear woman – God has her blessed – had only one goal and, as she called it, to walk on the Schnörr, dialect expression for going out. In her case with friends to do something. She was allowed to, provided she did her dishes first. The four men in the household were by no means responsible. So the good soul collected the impure dishes and hid it under the sink for a while. Looking in the mirror for the hairstyle that looked well-groomed at any time of the day or night, her always smiling lips turned red-and she was gone. The divine spouse met with his pensioner comrades for daily walks and was content to be a man.
I married her second-born son, who was almost ten years older.
Of course, he put on tradition as soon as I bore his name and demanded the impossible, until I decided to rebel. After all, I was born in the 60s, when braces were symbolically burned!
My soulmates once gave a very meaning to a word that is still frowned upon by the male world: EMANZIPATION!
We have been happily divorced for almost twenty years now.