Saturday, May 31, 2014

Why I Need A Social Secretary

Why I Need A Social Secretary

I always thought I could make my own decisions and appointments, but as the years proceed, I find I need a social secretary.

This decision has come about over a number of years as apparently my decision making leaves much to be desired in the view of my wife.

It started with her asking my opinion about clothes, makeup, social problems or decorating ideas.  

Invariably she asks me my opinion and once I give it, ignores it if it doesn’t coincide with what she wants to hear.  

Why ask me if she doesn’t care what I say?  Is this a ploy to undermine my ability to make choices?

When it comes to choosing a restaurant, I always ask Barbara where she would like to go or what type of food she would prefer. Barbara usually says “whatever you want is fine”, so I choose a place and immediately hear “why did you pick that place?”  

If she had a preference, why wouldn’t she tell me?  

Do all wives and women do this, or is it just Barbara? The answer is below.

The same holds true for making arrangements with friends and family.  Barbara will tell me to handle the arrangements.  So I do.

“Why did you do that” or “why did you agree to that”, is her usual response when I tell her what we had planned.

Tired of hearing her complaints, I now tell everyone to “Speak with my Social Secretary”.  

I have noticed that many of our male friends now do the same.  It saves time and nagging.  Guys don’t really care.  Just tell us where to show up.

This trend of guys getting Social Secretaries answers my previous question.  All the wives and women do this.  It probably is a form of amusement for them.

Now, even the pretense of taking my preferences into consideration has come under attack.

Barbara and I were recently visiting our daughter and her family in Connecticut.  We were all at the movies waiting for the picture to start.  There was a discussion about where we would all go to eat.  Barbara offered me three choices, Burgers, Spanish Tapas or Hibachi.  

I replied that the only one I didn’t want to eat was Hibachi.

Barbara looked at me, turned to my daughter and said firmly, “he wants Hibachi”.

Obviously, I was wrong again.

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