Residents in Aotearoa

Today I decided to do something a little different. Recently I completed an essay about my marriage, marriages in general, and the greatest threat, as I perceive it, to both of them. Maybe you'd like to read it.

The Greatest Threat.

1-15-15

My wife and I have recently celebrated our 41st wedding anniversary in New Zealand. We have been singularly blessed.

If I had been asked just after our wedding, so long ago, how I viewed our life, I would have replied that we were very 'lucky,' to be able make our start together by spending 4 months in Spain while my new bride continued her education at the University of Madrid. Years later, as we bought and sold houses, gave birth to our daughter and advanced in our careers, I would have termed us 'fortunate' to have been able to choose, as we did, our life style and to slowly realise as the years passed, that our plans to attain our American dream were working out very well indeed. Finally, in the slow and steady way that both evolution and our Lord appear to work; interesting coincidence, that, I have come to realise that we have been helped along from the beginning by a Power who must love us very much. Go figure.

Marriage is not easy after all. There are a host of reasons why couples can be blind-sided, and fail at it, even when their intentions at the beginning are the best. The world after all is full of temptations and many is the couple who has faltered, as one or the other of the pair has succumbed to the charms of a fair stranger. Fortunately, my wife and I had higher standards, and it would have taken a really outstanding stranger to turn our heads. In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where we lived, I guess the crop of such is notably lacking, as the really top-notch strangers regularly migrate to the cities and beaches of the southern climes where snow shovels and mosquitoes play a much less significant role in daily life. I personally, have never even run across a pretty-good stranger and so was not tempted along those lines.

But there are other dangers to a marriage. Money is a big one. Most couples I'm told spend a good deal of their time debating how best to spend it and why the husband doesn't make it faster than he does, and therefore solve the problem by making the first part of the debate moot. In our case, my wife and I were impervious to this pitfall since we both grew up poor. The fact that we made any money at all came as kind of a surprise to us both and when the greenbacks started to pour in, relatively speaking at least, we finally realised that we had attained 'two-income household' status. Paying the bills finally became easy and for some unknown reason, we never got into the habit of conspicuous consumption. We just relaxed, payed the bills and stashed most of the rest of it away. Starting out poor helps to make one a good saver. Once the food is covered, you generally can't think of anything else to buy due to lack of experience.

I love my wife very much. I call her Honey, or 'Hon' most of the time, although I use “Yes, Dear,” fairly often when I notice a certain mood prevailing at our house and I conclude that 'to serve' might work better for me than 'to be served' just then. During those times she has sometimes questioned whether my nickname for her is 'Hon' or 'Hun.' I have always assured her it is the former of course. I'm proud that we have been able to weather the many storms that trouble so many marriages. I trust that we will be able to continue.

Still, there is one other danger to wedded bliss that I think is the single greatest threat to a marriage. I have never heard it discussed, either on TV talk shows, not that I watch such drivel, or in print for that matter. It is a constant menace. Many a man has been laid low by this threat and I admit that I am not above falling under it's spell at times. Much as I love my wife, I have to admit that she and most other women drive me nearly to distraction at times by their use of a certain article of feminine “apparel.”

I'm talking of course about “purses.” To be stuck behind a woman at the check-out counter of any store ranks as the purest form of torture a man can experience in daily life and one that could even lead to the end of a marriage. So many women's purses resemble the one that Mary Poppins carried in the movie of the same name. They defy physics, Newtonian or otherwise. Some unknown mechanism allows the women to stuff a life time of accumulated junk into it, regardless of it's apparent size. They must weigh enough to make the cars the women drive exceed load restrictions on many roads during spring break-up every year. And yet, the women are able to carry them around on one shoulder. It only becomes apparent just how much accumulated matter has been stuffed into this 'black hole' when the woman lofts it up on to the check-out counter and opens it. A man, caught in close proximity to this event horizon, (behind her in the check-out line) suddenly feels a sickening spinning sensation as he enters that 'timelessness' while the woman searches through the purse's many alternate dimensions for her wallet.

It seems logical to me that a woman, doing her shopping on any given day, and visiting a number of stores, would see that her wallet was readily available and within easy reach, at least after the first store. Nevertheless, it's been my experience that this almost never happens. The woman rarely, if ever, finds her wallet on top of the pile. My theory is that as soon as a woman's wallet is inserted into the purse after each use, it is instantly transported to the most distant and hard to reach dimension the purse contains. What else could explain how she must dig through the contents and actually stack some of the smaller items on the check-out belt before finding it?

And women have themselves added many further refinements to this 'torture by purses'. One of them has to do with the opening of the purses themselves. “Yes, Dear” currently has a purse that resembles a backpack. (The men reading this will no doubt shudder but this needs to be said.) When she opens it each time, the strap on the top flap that passes through two loops on the body of the thing must first be undone and the flap raised. Then, the strings encircling the top end of the backpack must be spread from their tightened and closed position to the open. This takes two hands and and a spreading motion is used. Only then, can she begin to dig into the contents. Eventually, when the wallet is located, it is withdrawn and the second refinement of torture begins.

The wallet is opened, by unzipping a zipper than extends around three sides of it. The folding money is located and the woman once again checks the total on the check-out screen. She then begins selecting bills from a wide assortment of denominations. It is astounding how many one dollar bills women carry. She counts out bills that will exactly cover the dollar amount and then, to the horror of the man behind her, unzips the coin purse section of the wallet and begins to count the exact coins needed. She knows of course that the check out girl will happily and patiently wait as long as it takes for this process to be completed. Once the check out girl gets off work, she'll be doing her own shopping after all.

So far, the level of torture has been painful for the man in line, but it now becomes almost unbearable. He now notices for the first time, that the woman checking out has held back one or two items and now asks the check out girl to 'ring these up separately.' All too often they are items of feminine hygiene that men don't like to even be near. Then, the process of paying the exact amount repeats itself.

Finally, when the man is sweating, his eyeballs are protruding, his joints all assure him that they are about to fail under the strain of staying in place in the line, the woman begins the process of taking her receipt, inserting it into the wallet, zipping the coin purse closed, zipping the wallet closed, inserting the wallet into the purse, pulling the drawstrings of the opening, closing the flap of the purse, hoisting the purse to her shoulder and finally moving her ponderous shopping cart slowly away.

I have seen many a man reduced nearly to tears during this ordeal. He may look the same afterwards, but I assure you he is not.

In the movie One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest, Chief Bromden (Chief Broom) thought that Nurse Ratched could vary the passage of time by turning a dial in a door. It could be made to run faster or be slowed down almost to a stop. I now think this is very likely to have been true. I have seen women in stores routinely slow time down until seconds become excruciatingly long and they have done so without dials of any sort. Just their purses. I think it may be some sort of time/space singularity brought about by close proximity to extremely massive objects.

I have written to the managers of several stores suggesting what I think would be a useful and humane change to their check out lines. It would prevent needless suffering for millions of men. Many stores now have lines that handle customers purchasing 12 items or less. This is fine, but how much better it would be if there were check-out lines that handled men only?

I can imagine the lines of smiling and relaxed men, moving steadily along, paying for their purchases with twenties and fifties taken from their pockets. Any change they're given is efficiently stuffed back into a separate pocket along with the receipt. Naturally, the check out person is male. Yes, I can imagine a store where men exit the sliding doors with a smile on their faces and whistle on their lips.

Unfortunately, I have received only a few replies to my letters from these managers and most of their letters follow a similar vein. “I received your suggestion, Mr. Foster. I even took it home and shared it with my partner and she agrees that it is a very, shall we say, unique, idea, but one that shows typical male bias. Very Truly Yours, Ms. -------.”

Fortunately, the well of patience that men draw strength from is almost as limitless as the dimensions within a woman's purse seem to be. I will continue to persevere. After all, we men have developed some protective strategies. We can time our checkouts to some extent. As we approach, if we notice a number of females lining up, we can loiter in the beer or sausages aisles, even if we know we're not allowed to buy any of those items. We can then move slowly toward the checkout while wistfully inspecting the baked chickens and donuts displays nearby. And finally, when one of the rare lulls in females occurs, or when an extraordinarily brave man or maybe an unaware one gets in line first, we can make our dash and secure our places behind him. (The security cameras in stores must often show crowds of men slowly circling the checkout area awaiting their chance.)

To be strictly fair, I must admit that I once benefited from a purse and at the time it seemed to be no less than a miracle to me. It was way back when my wife and I were still quite young. Her purse at that time was in it's early stages of development. It had not yet taken on as much matter as purses of a more mature woman would have. You could say I suppose that it resembled a newly formed star, many years away from having sufficient mass to start it's collapse in to a black hole.

I had been involved in racing canoes down many of the boulder-strewn rivers in our area for a couple of years. On this particular day, 'Hon' had accompanied me to the first race of the new racing season. As I performed my pre-start checklist, I realized that I did not have the elastic strap that held my glasses in place. I had last used it the previous year, during the race that closed out that season's schedule, a 30-miler from Gwinn to Rock. Given the boulders in the river we were running today, and the number of competitors who would all be trying to get through the rapids at pretty much the same time, I knew what our chances of 'dumping' were, and preferred to have my glasses attached firmly to my head.

I commented unhappily that I had forgotten the strap to 'Hon' and she just smiled. She reached into her purse and pulled it out. She told me that she had had it there since the last race. While I was delighted to have it and thanked her profusely, I was still aware of a fleeting, only half-formed feeling of dread regarding this power that women wield.

At the time of this writing though, I have to report that I feel optimistic about the future. Here in New Zealand, most people, men and woman alike carry a type of debit card that withdraws any monies spent directly from checking or savings accounts. It is almost faster than paying with large denominations of bills, which men have always relied on, since no change is given.

They also carry travel cards for use on trains, buses, and ferries. These allow the fare to be paid by simply passing the card in front of a card-reader. These readers are of sufficient power that they can actually read a woman's 'ATHOP' card while it is still in her purse! Men, can you imagine the breakthrough in technology this represents? The limitless dimensions of clutter that lie within a purse no longer matter. Men and women alike can stride through the travel-hub turnstiles without breaking rhythm.

While I attempted unsuccessfully to lobby store managers to consider “men only” check out lines, some heroic inventor, a man no doubt, thought 'outside the box' (or purse in this case) and changed the world.

As this catches on, I predict that the mental health of millions of men will improve. My own state of mind borders on bliss when 'Hon' travels with me on the train and simply waves her purse across the reader.

And, think of how many of those otherwise compromised marriages will be saved. Society as a whole will benefit.

I really wish I could meet whoever it was that performed this technological miracle. I'd invite him over for a beer and a brat to express my thanks and those of millions of men. Well, I would the next time 'Hon' lets me buy some beer and sausages anyway.

++