The Red Feather Guide to Marriage: Why Your Balls Need to Be the Same Size
I’ve been tired lately. Not “chopping firewood” tired, but “managing a comfort-driven husband” tired.
I recently realized that a massive chunk of my exhaustion filters directly down from the man I married. If he needs building materials, I’m the one making the run to town. If dinner isn’t plated by 5:30 PM—regardless of how many of my own businesses I was running that day—he starts issuing verbal reminders. He sounds like a squealing brake pad until he actually sees me standing at the stove.
Now, he is starting to get the gist of his actual social standing in this house. He is slowly realizing that if he wants me to contribute equally to the household income, he might have to meet some of his own basic survival needs. I’m not totally complaining; after all, this is a man who does his own laundry (and usually mine too—and he folds it!).
But my husband is also an excessively comfort-driven creature who absolutely thrives on routine. He requires home-baked cookies, brownies, and sweets that he consumes by the dozen EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. He expects gourmet, Food Network-worthy meals (again, ready by 5:30 PM sharp), and he has a unique penchant for dedicated TV time combined with holistic-style tummy rubs at 8:30 PM. EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT.
(Get your mind out of the gutter. I’ve determined the tummy rubs are strictly digestion management for his aggressive brownie habit.)
I’ve accepted that his creature comforts are completely out of my control, but it’s in my best interest to make them a reality just so he is easier to live with.
But it has also made me realize something: drawing upon my experiences living with this particular man, I can confidently say that as a woman, I am far superior.
I get my responsibilities taken care of on my own. I don’t need elaborate self-care routines or a warm cookie to “get shit done.” If I don’t get to relax in a garden tub with lavender-scented bubbles on any given night, I can somehow still manage to deliver a paycheck, a home-cooked meal, and usually the baked goods, too.
In some crazy, half-baked, and clearly not-well-thought-out moment recently, my husband actually started doubting if he was getting a fair deal out of our arrangement. Tonight, he made the mistake of expressing those doubts out loud.
Let’s just say I set him straight.
The primary outcome of that exchange was that he volunteered to make his own cookies tonight. I use the word “make” with extreme hesitation. What actually happened is that he asked me to set up the KitchenAid mixer, explain how to add the ingredients, and preheat the oven for him. I combined the butter and eggs. He successfully poured the boxed mix into the bowl and put parchment paper on a pan.
His ultimate contribution to the baking process was to roll the dough into balls and place them on the sheet.
As I watched him work, I tried to gently convey that it is critical for the cookie dough balls to be uniform. I tried, and I failed. As he moved down the pan, they just kept getting bigger and bigger.
He asked me how they looked. I pointed out that every single one had noticeably increased in mass. But I was tired, and I said it the wrong way.
“Your balls have to be the same size,” I said.
It was totally innocent! I was prepared to launch into a full culinary explanation of how different-sized balls cook at different rates and cause burnt edges.
But the snickering started immediately.
Frustrated, I stepped in to fix the pan. “Move over,” I muttered. “Now I have to pinch your balls for you.”
As I proceeded to resize the dough, Chris made a very solid point about how my phrasing could be misinterpreted. Frankly, as I write this, he is still sitting on the couch snickering about his massive win.
Which brings me back to my original point: Women are superior. I could have rolled all those cookies uniformly by myself, and I never would have provided him with the comedic ammunition he is currently enjoying.
Women get shit done. Men just spend way too much time wondering about the size of—and how to talk about—balls.