Last week, I suggested to my husband that I needed a ‘sister wife’.
A woman to help me with the tasks I don’t enjoy so that I can focus on the ones I do. A woman to confide in, trade outfits and share a bottle of wine with at the end of a difficult day. A woman to share my wifely duties with when I needed to take a break and indulge in some self care.
He listened eagerly, nodding his head in agreement, enthralled with the prospect. Visions of ‘Big Love’ no doubt, swirling around his brain.
That is, until I clarified that ‘wifely duties’ was not code for sex, nor was ‘self care’ a euphemism for ‘self pleasure’.
My sister wife would take over the laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, housekeeping, bill paying, battle refereeing and computer-time invigilating. She would clean the counter tops, wipe down the coffee machine and hang up the wet towels.
I, in turn, would have more one-on-one time with the children, be able to get to yoga class more than once a week and start on that creative writing project that keeps getting shunted to the bottom of the list.
“But what’s in it for me?”, he wanted to know.
Um, more frequent, creative, mind-blowing, sex with your wife?