“They” say in their marriage seminars that every married man should know his wife’s dress size and shoe size, and the like. I did not know Wanle’s. Not only did she not grudge or begrudge me for this “insensitivity,” she also indulged me for not knowing my own shoe size, neck size, pant size, or underwear size.
If there was something I could do but Wanle could do better or faster or easier, my brain froze in that department. That was Wanle’s concern; she feared she would leave me handicapped. She tried to force me to take initiative and do something by and for myself. But it was too late. While she was on hospital bed and I couldn’t be home, I went to stores to buy a pant that was too tight, underwear the type I never had before (and I still wonder why they put men’s picture on the case), and under shirts that were too big. I am Mr. Dependent; she was Ms. Independent.
I know that I am not crying now, I am grieving. When I will really cry is when I roam the mall for four hours and come out with the wrong thing: wrong size and wrong price. Or, when I need to book a trip to NJ or MD and discover how handicapped I am. Or, find myself in a bus going somewhere else. Or, wander aimlessly in the grocery store only to end up buying nothing because no one gave me a list of what to buy. Or, when my cologne is empty and I have no clue where it’s been coming from all these years, that’s when I’ll cry. And that’s what scares me. Those are things I never had to do or think about in over 20 years. From under wears to outer wears, from socks to hats, belts, shirts, pants, cellphones, iPad, every electric shaving set I have owned, etc. Olawanle got them for me.
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