Not that I would ever use my condition to get out of doing something, or to get preferential treatment (other than a better parking spot), but this new ground we’re covering here, so Nick and I are feeling our way through things.
I don’t want him to cater to my every whim, because I pride myself on being independent, But there are things I can’t do for myself anymore. It’s been quite the learning experience. To wit:
Here’s what I can reasonably expect
That Nick will drive me to and fro. He’s chauffeur designate anyways, and men like being in control, right?
That what is mine is mine and his is mine, too. This includes that sandwich he was about to scarf down, that chocolate malt shake, oh, and hand over that Diet Coke as well.
He’ll handle the laundry. Except I will do the sorting, thankyouverymuch.
Dressing me. And undressing me.
Taking out the trash.
What I probably shouldn’t push but will try to anyways
Letting the dog out. (Will we ever get to that Jetsons future in which dogs walk themselves?)
Breakfast in bed. OK, coffee?
Purse/bag holding. (The universal sign of the henpecked husband.)
Paying the bills.
Brushing my hair.
Talking to people I don’t feel like talking to.
What I will never swallow my pride to ask for
Scratching me in weird places.
Brushing my teeth.
Wiping my ass. I mean, I’ll get a bidet before I let that happen.