My mum came round — one of her early Saturday morning food drops. I was still lazing around in my PJs. I came down wearing my M&S jersey teddy suit pyjamas. Before you ask – no, it was not the Rosie or the Autograph range. Just M&S basics. It’s also worth noting it was one of the hottest days of the year.
As I was coming down the stairs, I heard him say to my mum,
“You need to come in — she’s wearing hardly anything. She won’t be able to stand at the door to talk to you.”
As I’m walking down the stairs, I look down and assess my outfit. No, I felt fine. I’ll just stand in the doorway. I told him it was fine — if my mum didn’t want to come in, I would just talk to her at the door.
He looked at me.
“What, wearing that?”
My head: Wait wait wait — is he kidding?
My mum piped in from the doorway,
“She’s wearing a lot more clothes than some of the people out here!”
He thought my mum would support him — his mum would have. Right. I had backup.
He got in a huff.
“Don’t listen to me, do what you want — stand at the door like that.”
He slammed the hallway door and walked into the kitchen.
Breathe. Today is not the day you go to prison — you have a holiday booked.
My mum looked at me.
“What was that?”
I said, “That was my husband.”
She asked, “What’s wrong with him?”
I said, “That’s who he is.” We both quickly changed the subject. We both knew nothing good would come out of continuing the conversation — especially with the fucking Ring doorbell spying on us.
Later, once I’d worked it out in my head — and could be fucked to bring it up (two weeks, to be precise) — I did.
I mean, it was hot, I was tired, then I got my period, and I was watching all of The Handmaid’s Tale again — you know how it goes. Can you really be fucking arsed to ask a question where all roads lead to WTF? Would discussing it make it any better?
So for two weeks I siphoned and stored energy, to have the discussion.
Then I asked:
“Why did you feel it was appropriate to talk to me like that when my mum came round last week?”
He put his thinking face on.
He said he didn’t feel it was appropriate for me to stand in the doorway in what he described as a negligee.
My head: Is this the time to correct him? Negligee? Are you having a fucking laugh? It’s made of cotton and viscose.
I replied,
“If I’m okay with it, and my mum is willing to have a conversation with me wearing that, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
He replied,
“Fine! I was just protecting your modesty!”
My modesty.
I must have looked like I’d just smelt shit. This is not my first rodeo. This is not the first time we’ve had to have such a discussion. I thought the last time I went in so strong I was now protected.
I said,
“My modesty is not your responsibility. You’re only responsible for your own.”
Then I paused — lightbulb moment.
“You do know that, right?”
He said,
“But we’re married — of course I’m allowed to express an opinion about your modesty.”
This man had gone to the effort to protect my modesty and accidentally exposed himself to my mum.
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