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"Playing games &amp;amp;#8220;You have a haircut appointment today,&amp;amp;#8221; Blossoms called from the bedroom the other Saturday morning. &amp;amp;#8220;What?&amp;amp;#8221; I said. &amp;amp;#8220;When? What time is it?&amp;amp;#8221; I was in the kitchen making us espressos. &amp;amp;#8220;One-thirty,&amp;amp;#8221; she said. I felt myself starting to get pissed. I had the impulse to pour her coffee in the sink. &amp;amp;#8220;Why did you make my haircut appointment?&amp;amp;#8221; I said. &amp;amp;#8220;Um,&amp;amp;#8221; Blossoms said, walking into the kitchen in a bra and underwear. &amp;amp;#8220;Look at you. Are you about to compete in the X Games?&amp;amp;#8221; Blossoms had started making haircut appointments for me as soon as we got married. I hate making those appointments, but I hate when she does it for me more. It&amp;amp;#8217;s such a suburban married-couple thing to do. I am terrified of becoming one of those stupid married men who just kind of floats through his life, ministered to by his wife&amp;amp;#8212;the kind of guy who becomes a widower and doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t know how to make a can of soup or buy undershirts. That always felt like using marriage as an excuse to not really be party to your life. It&amp;amp;#8217;s a relationship, not assisted living. &amp;amp;#8220;Don&amp;amp;#8217;t make my haircut appointments for me anymore,&amp;amp;#8221; I said, shoving a cup of espresso at her. She was, understandably, bewildered by my anger. &amp;amp;#8220;Why? So you can look like you&amp;amp;#8217;re the kind of guy who says, &amp;amp;#8216;Hey let&amp;amp;#8217;s get the band back together&amp;amp;#8217;?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;I don&amp;amp;#8217;t want to forget all the stuff I used to know how to do when I was single. Like don&amp;amp;#8217;t you want to sometimes iron your own shirts, instead of me doing them for both of us?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;d rather make love to Keith Richards&amp;amp;#8217; corpse than iron a shirt,&amp;amp;#8221; she said. &amp;amp;#8220;I like that you iron my shirts.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;Keith Richards is alive,&amp;amp;#8221; I said. Then I stomped out of the room. Later, I was out running errands and I ended up meeting my friend Eric for a sandwich at my favorite deli. I told him about my big blow-up, fully expecting him to feel bad for me and my stifled existence. He said, &amp;amp;#8220;Dude, are you kidding? What&amp;amp;#8217;s wrong with you?&amp;amp;#8221; Eric&amp;amp;#8217;s been single for the last five years. He is desperate to be in a relationship. (It doesn&amp;amp;#8217;t help that he only dates 21-year-olds. But we weren&amp;amp;#8217;t talking about him; we were talking about me.) &amp;amp;#8220;You can&amp;amp;#8217;t be single and married at the same time, man,&amp;amp;#8221; Eric said. I thought about that for a while, and he was right. After Eric left, I stayed at my table at the sandwich shop and imagined being grateful that Blossoms was looking out for me, making life a little less grating, a little more friendly (self-making haircut appointments!). And it wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t long until I did feel grateful. Blossoms loves madeleines, the French cookie Proust was famous for eating. I saw a jar of them on the counter when I was paying. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;ll take one of those to go,&amp;amp;#8221; I told the girl behind the counter, who looked very good in her tiny T-shirt, although honestly that was not where my mind was. &amp;amp;#8220;Make it three. Wait,&amp;amp;#8221; I said, suddenly feeling the true joy of generosity, &amp;amp;#8220;I will take the whole jar.&amp;amp;#8221; There were about 10 madeleines there, more than Blossoms could eat before they went stale. That was kind of the point. And I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t wait to give them to her."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.glamour.com/sex-love-life/2008/02/jake-playing-games>