Why Men Should Never Retire

We recently moved from NYC to a fairly large city in the suburbs, you know the kind where the parking lots are stacked six deep when the Metro North chugs into the station. Taxis are shuffling to get their mass quantity of rides for the day and all the wives are running their cars non-stop because it's better to have a new version of "War, What is it good for?" on your radio than empty silence as you realize the train will be ten minutes late... again.

Anyway, I digress. I pick up my husband at least four nights out of five. Even though I try the odd different route home, the chances are that we'll take the same three streets home (it's a 3 minute ride). I'm a pretty smart cookie but at ten or 11 at night, the brain is looking for fast and easy. I can pick out scenic routes when my brain is running on more than the third cup of tea since dinner (trying to stave off chocolate cravings. It doesn't work since tea, according to Atkins, is a catalyst for cravings. He must be right. I need a cookie, a candy, something! when that cup enters my hand.)

So ... okay, the same route. Every day. It's not that big a city. People-wise, sure. Busy-wise, not so much. And at 11, no-one 'cept me and the taxis. Which leads me to this morning. We're heading home from the beach, and my husband is driving. We pass the station where I pick him up most nights. (Same route, every day). We turn the corner, still the same route. As we come up to the main corner for changing streets, he asks me to remind him where to turn. I refuse. He continues in the middle lane. I'm trying as hard as I can to remain silent. The light turns red. Mucho thanka God, because it's then that he realizes he has to get in the right lane. And I'm not telling him because it's ridiculous, isn't it? This is the way we go EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.

Which is why I think men should never retire. I mean, if they're like my husband, during the 12 to 14 hours they're at work, they're responsible for thousands of dollars, a hundred earth-shattering decisions (this from him), and his neck is on the block for everything. Just for the record, my husband's been there for years and his neck is very safe, as far as I'm concerned. Yet, when he steps off that train each night, he turns into this dependent being who can't find his way home without directions. Who won't get himself a snack in the fridge on his own (he waits for me to want one, and then he's gung-ho for whatever I'm having). Don't get me wrong. This is one of the kindest, sweetest, smartest, funniest men I know. But if he retires, so help me ...!