That you and I are by nature a stubborn lot is a given. We are always wont to take the negative side of every virtue. So we always need to have our heads banged with rocks blasted by that German power firm that has halted construction work in Nyamagabe, before we realise what is expected of us. Which brings us to house chores; washing a spouse’s undergarments...
It’s more than a thousand years since Jesus lived, so we are not going to behave like we still wear cowhide and write on papyrus. The world has changed. But you are not going to stop hearing people ask, “Would you watch your partner’s underwear?” The Dark Knight in me believes such a question was asked by dinosaurs, but we all know they are extinct.
Once in a while in this city, I chance upon folks talking in English. And since I have crosschecked with the new Penal Code and ascertained that there is no crime called eavesdropping-and-sharing-with-no-intention-to-malign, I will share this. Last week, there was this African lady and her white friend in a café downtown. The African—let’s call her Daisy just because she was ‘big size’ (I have never seen a ‘skinny’ Daisy, anyways)—was telling her friend that she would never marry until she finds a man who can afford a watching machine. She said she wasn’t lazy, per se, but that the thought of washing her hubby’s underwear was already disgusting before she has tried it.
I still don’t know what is disgusting about washing underwear. You are going to share a bed, share your lives and even toothbrush—yep, some couples do—and you are too sensitive to the underwear? A man should express his heart by helping with chores, and believe you me, when you get down to washing her bras and G-Strings—are those tiny things still there?—she will give you more votes in her ballot box than Obama got from African Americans last November.
It is like years ago, men felt revulsion at the thought of changing babies’ diapers. Even today, the Neanderthal type of men say washing their lover’s underwear is disgusting. These are the same guys who will sit there and call out to the babysitter or mother to come and change pampers, but when opportunity knocks, they won’t hesitate to ogle cleavage or exposed underwear of a passerby.
The harsh truth is that the capitalist economy has ensured that many of us survive through spending 10 hours or more in the office. We hardly have time to spoil our lovers. The only time we have off, we use it for other activities, like picking the beer bottle from the table top to our mouth from morning to evening. When we wake up the following day, the first thing we do is check if Mike Dean helped Manchester City beat Arsenal and how many goals van Persie scored against a limping Liverpool. And the most unfortunate part is that we are turning this into a culture!
However, Dark Knight has one aspirin to help you out. Make a magical one hour per weekend. Use it to fry eggs, pamper the baby and wash your partner’s undergarments. And if you are that kind of man who discards your dirty boxers under the bed for her to wash when she returns from upcountry after a month, start weaving the magic. There is no excuse, even if you are in Nyamagabe facing water shortage.
If you can’t wash her underwear even after reading this, the day someone does it for her, you are doomed. The magic wand is in that underwear!