Ever wonder how much you’re really worth to your partner?
Because after this weekend I’m beginning to wonder.
In my humble opinion, there is a fine line between saving money, (which as you know the old man has an unhealthy obsession for), and being obviously mean. A Barramundi fish told me my worth in our relationship this weekend.
Call me a hopeless romantic, but when it comes to the person that you are wildly and passionately in love with (!), you don’t begrudge them those small treats or trick them by buying the cheaper version surreptitiously, do you? Love is about giving the best you can afford.
We, as a family, have always endeavored to support the old man’s passionate crusade towards an early retirement, which has driven him since he was a small child.
We toe his ‘living in poverty’ line where we can and where we find difficulties with it, we’ve found clever ways to foil him. Which, to be honest, don’t always sit comfortably with us.
But on Friday night, our commitment to the old man’s religion of frugality hit a major speed bump.
Because Friday night is THE BEST night of the week, isn’t it? It’s a time for celebration and decadence because although it’s only Friday night, it feels like you have three weeks of holiday in front of you – although in reality it’s only two days of impending hangover.
And like many families, Friday night is about take-out for us, and as we are quite spoilt in our neck of the woods because we have a smorgasbord of choice when it comes to take-out food, we get pretty frigging excited about it.
Last Friday, however, in spite of the veritable Masterchef standard of food on our doorstep, in a rare moment of homesickness we reverted back to our British roots and after our usual few white wines we decided to opt for a portion of good, old-fashioned fish and chips.
Just saying, but I COULD have splurged on some super-expensive Sushimi from my favourite Japanese or a Thai which involves ‘HOW MUCH? starters. But no, ever-conscious of the old man’s need to save money for that rainy day when I finally leave him and take all our hard-earned cash, I maintained my reputation for being a ‘cheap date’ and kept it simple.
In hindsight, I did wonder why he kept ruminating over the different classes of Barramundi sold at our local fish and chip shop when he doesn’t even eat fish – it was obviously one of those marital conversations that goes in one ear and out of the other.
UNTIL IT FUCKING MATTERED!
Because until Friday, it seemed a minor detail to me that there was the option of either the VERY EXPENSIVE Australian Barramundi or the cheapskate (and NOT AS NICE) International one. I still don’t know the reason behind that price differential – perhaps the International ones are skinnier due to a longer swim to our shores and a stint on Manus Island or maybe the Australian ones are just raised in the Eastern Suburbs – but there’s a massive $5 price difference.
But, to be honest, it wasn’t a consideration on Friday night. It was Friday night and I was having a good time UNTIL the evil hunter and gatherer decided to fuck up big-time and my box of fish and chips arrived with the flimsiest, saddest piece of cheap fish I’ve ever seen sat apologetically on a pile of chips.
Now I’m no racist and I certainly hold nothing against VERY SMALL things, (and that piece of fish might have had a small man complex but it still packed a punch with its flavor), but it was the principle, and the fact that it didn’t quite melt in my mouth in the same way that its Australian counterpart does, and I’d been re-living that sensation the whole time the old man was down the road cheating on me at the fish shop.
I took one mouthful, turned to him and he smiled nervously.
Suffice it to say that he will be receiving Alpha boxers for Christmas.
‘You just made it 70:30 now in the divorce settlement, mate!’ I spat at him, with as much passive-aggression as I could muster.