Look, I do not know quite how to phrase this but if what I am hearing is accurate, I am honestly left without a choice. Yes, I’m afraid to say that on the day in which you were getting ready for Rachel’s wedding, your husband was in bed with… just kind of a mild hangover. I know, the truth hurts.
But continue I must for fear that if I do not say anything, then there will be no one to tell you what you need to hear—that your marital partner engages in the same rote activities he performs after you put the kids to sleep on a Tuesday, watching an episode of Abbott Elementary before turning it off after the first commercial. Apparently, that single gin and tonic at the rehearsal dinner made him just want to lay there without the sounds of that perfectly fine show having its way with him.
Perhaps a more thorough accounting of hubby’s day is appropriate so as to chronicle the extent to which he did not degrade, debauch, or debase himself on what was ostensibly the first free day he’s had to himself since 2019.
The morning started with great potential for sans-spouse hijinks. After you went to meet the girls, your significant other received a message from the other men in the bridal party—they added him to the group chat last night to his enormous chagrin—stating that they were meeting up at a nearby cigar lounge for stogies, a classic day-of-wedding relaxation activity. Rather than responding “hell yea” or “sounds chill boyz,” he ignored the message, instead opting for a podcast about the disappearing watermen of the Chesapeake Bay.
Alas, it appears your longtime paramour has a throbbing, insatiable desire for bleak, Maryland-specific eco-pessimism.
After your husband declined a whiskey and cheese pairing at McGlinchey’s, he took a shower and read nine pages of a short story by Carson McCullers, which made him so sleepy that he put up a Do Not Disturb sign for the next nine hours, a fact which is disturbing in its own way, if you spent all day next to the ice machine thinking about it.
There was a brief period where, in between sleep and casual resting, he threw away some used tissues that you left on your side of the bed, making certain that no one could accuse him of trashing the place, Led Zeppelin-style.
At 3:30 p.m., The Gouda Fellas, as they were now calling themselves, knocked on his door, and asked if he would care to accompany them to a local dance establishment—the kind with poles if you catch my drift. In response, he politely stated he would see them at the pending nuptials. He then shuffled over to the dresser where Mr. Precautious plowed through a single tablet of regular-strength Tylenol.
A member of the housekeeping staff knocked after The Gouda Fellas removed the Do Not Disturb sign as a practical joke. Unperturbed, the milquetoast love of your life opened the door and handed over the gratuity he had so courteously planned to offer had they actually cleaned the room.
An hour before the wedding, your gray paint of a man took a shower. Midway through, he realized that this was his second shower of the day, thinking “oh yeah, I did shower earlier, didn’t I?” “Alright.” “Anyway,” he went on, saying all of this dull stuff out loud to no one.
So I’m not usually one to spill the tea but our favorite mediocrity dropped a cup of Tension Tamer on the floor. His thirsty ass cleaned this up promptly and just drank some water from the tap.
On behalf of not only myself but the entire hotel staff, I am in no way deeply disgusted that you have to live out the remainder of your days with this self-assured, totally average, trough of oatmeal.
Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
