WHAT A NAG!

What a nag!                

InpaperMagzine
December 5, 2010

I can see right through him; I know he thinks I’m too efficient. And he’s right; I am, because I have to be. After all, my eyes may be sharp enough to see through him, but his are so dull he sees himself in a mirror and thinks everything’s perfect on him; perfect clothes, perfect briefcase, best haircut in town.

Well here’s how it is: I ironed those clothes; I won’t allow anyone else to, so the trousers are perfectly creased; I never allow him to lie down wearing them, or squat or sit with his legs all bent. And I choose his ties (and all his clothes, actually) and I hang the right tie with each shirt. Otherwise, monsieur actually wore a green tie with a pink shirt once.

As for his hair, I came back from holiday once and he had a neat little comb-over, like a desi Donald Trump. I chopped that ridiculous lock off and made him have a cut from a proper place, not one of those two-bit places he seems to think are good enough.

And that’s another thing: how come everything is ‘good enough’ and that is just fine by him? I didn’t marry Mr Good Enough, my parents didn’t marry me to a Mr Good Enough.  We married him, because Good Enough was not good enough for us.
My mother was an army wife, and I learnt all about a wife’s duty from her. ‘Make sure you remember who we are,’ she always said, and I always do.

It’s not a coincidence that my father is a four-star General. My mother had a lot to do with his rank than anyone knows. Come to think of it she too was particular about his clothes, and she also…yes I learnt quite a bit from her without realising it. I too make sure my husband eats the right things. He loves garlic, but I never give him any because it would make him and all his clothes stink.

He always tells me he’d like chopped garlic with dinner, and because it’s never there, he complains that I never listen to him. Well he’s right. I don’t, because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, so what’s the point? Even though I make him go for a jog every morning, he’s put on weight, and you should hear him snore.

I found very early on that if I look at him a certain way, (just the way my mother looks at my father, it makes me feel so sentimental), he doesn’t argue. And so I look at him like that whenever he’s being extra-immature or silly, and that’s all I do. Thank God no one can call me a nag. I hear they’re very dominating, those women. —Rabia Ahmed

This article was printed in the Dawn on the 05 December 2010