My wife got to know me, not the other way around. She literally stalked me. No matter where I went, she was already there. It was twelve years ago now. Back then, I was a die-hard motorcyclist, I only wore black sweatshirts, frayed jeans and biker boots, and I had long hair. Of course, I also had an outfit for special occasions. Then I wore a black sweatshirt, frayed jeans and white sneakers. Housework was an evil that I avoided whenever possible. But I liked myself and my life. So that's how she got to know me. "You're my dream man. You're so masculine, so daring and so free."
Our freedom soon came to an end when we decided to get married.
Why not, I was boldly masculine, almost free and I had long hair.
But only until the wedding. Shortly before, I heard her say: "You could at least go to the hairdresser, after all, my parents are coming to the wedding." Hours, no, days later and endless tears later, I gave in and got a fashionable short hairstyle, because after all, I loved her.
And what the heck, I was manly, bold, almost free and it pulled on my head. And I was soooo sweet.
"Honey, I love you just the way you are," she breathed. Life was fine although it was a bit chilly on the head. Weeks of peaceful togetherness followed until one day my wife stood in front of me with a large bag under her arm. She took out a shirt, a pollunder (the word sends shivers down my spine) and a new pair of pants and said: "Please try these on." Days, weeks, no, months and endless paper handkerchiefs later, I gave in and wore shirts, pollunders (Ärrrgh) and pants. Black shoes, jackets, ties and designer coats followed.
But I was masculine, bold, dead chic and it pulled on my head.
Then came the biggest battle. The battle for the bike. However, it didn't last very long, because it's not very good fighting in a black suit that constantly pinches and tweaks. What's more, the patent leather shoes were pinching, which also wore me down.
But what the hell, I was masculine, bourgeois, almost free, I drove a station wagon, and it pulled on my head.
Many battles followed over the years, all of which I lost in a sea of tears. I did the dishes, ironed, shopped, memorized German pop songs, drank sweet red wine and went for walks on Sundays.
What the hell, I thought, I was a wimp, trapped, felt ******* and it was pulling on my head.
One fine day, my wife stood in front of me with her suitcases packed and said: "I'm leaving you." Completely astonished, I asked her why. "I don't love you anymore because you've changed so much. You're no longer the man I once knew."
I recently met her again. Her "new guy" is a long-haired biker with ripped jeans and tattoos who looked at me with pity.
I think I will send him a cap...
Author unknown
And what do we learn from this "tragedy"?
1. before you commit, think carefully about whether you will still find the cute little quirks of your dream man/woman at least tolerable in 20 years' time. If not, move on straight away.
2. you change. Even without "YOU", dear Anonymous, you would probably have bought a shirt at some point. Probably even a pair of trousers. Well, if you'd bought them yourself, they probably wouldn't pinch. But you would have changed either way... it's called life. Sounds strange, but it's true.
And what else can we learn from the tragedy?
With age, hair becomes shorter and, above all, less.
You don't even need to get married for that.