Dear college spouse,
Just a quick one before I get started: college marriages are meant to be platonic – I know I’m irresistible, but for the sake of our children, please keep your attraction (and your hands) to yourself.
No, I don’t want to be the father of your real children. And yes, for that I am sorry. But if you can’t get over it, you know where the door is (oh…and I’m taking custody of our college kids – it’s really for the best).
To be honest, I’d be saving the children a whole lot of trauma. No one wants to know what your 2k time was, or how stressful it is waking up at five in the morning to get to your rowing outing, least of all my kids. I just don’t speak the rowing lingo, and I’m not even sorry for that. Go chat to an erg, and stop tormenting the rest of us with the unnecessary, uninteresting and frankly uninspiring chat.
Although, I have to admit that despite the fact I don’t want your real children, I am often amazed by how composed your life is. I’m constantly impressed by your neatly colour-coded notes, your essay plans more detailed than Theresa May’s plan on Brexit (although, admittedly, that’s not hard), and especially by your ability to make morning rowing outings despite having been at Cellar the night before.
For these reasons, I have to say our kids will probably be lucky to have you. I mean, were this a real family (dysfunctional though it would be), you most certainly would be the breadwinner, and I’d be the househusband – essentially too lazy to earn a living, and safe in the knowledge that you will provide for me.
However, your composure is your only redeeming characteristic. Sitting in a room with you for more than five minutes makes me want to stick pins in my eyes, and quite frankly, even that is an understatement.
I know you want to have a good time, but laughing in my face honestly isn’t the way to go about it. I have no idea how I’m going to tolerate an entire family meal with you – please just make sure we are on the top floor and near a window when you organise it (definitely your job, not mine), in case I need an escape from your god-awful chat.
All I can really say to you dear wife is this: I don’t know how we got here. I don’t know how I married you. I don’t know why I married you. All I know is it was a mistake. Sex regret may be a thing, but I’m suffering with the far worse problem of marriage regret.
You may be able to bequeath your neatly colour-coded notes to our college children, your advice on the best nights out in Oxford, and your knowledge of the best rowing techniques. But, frankly, I will be able to provide them with the most important bit of advice: “When you marry, choose wisely kids.”