My plan was to never get married. I was going to be an art monster instead. Women almost never become art monsters because art monsters only concern themselves with art, never mundane things. Nabokov didn't even fold his own umbrella. Vera licked his stamps for him.The Wife's expectations of life are overturned, it might be fair to say that life attacks her, at least it feels that way for her, and henceforward she emphatically refuses the stereotypes offered her of the nurturing and forgiving victim.
I hate often and easily. I hate, for example, people who sit with their legs splayed. People who claim to give 110 percent. People who call themselves "comfortable" when what they mean is decadently rich. You're so judgmental, my shrink tells me, and I cry all the way home, thinking of it.The results are surprising, sometime laugh-out-loud funny, although I immediately felt guilty after laughing, and most of all, bracing, for her refusal to be comforted or comfortable.
People keep telling me to do yoga. I tried it once at the place down the street. The only part I liked was the part at the end when the teacher covered you with a blanket and you got to pretend you were dead for ten minutes.