This column first appeared slightly edited in the Sunday Times on 3 July 2016.
CONCH JULY 2016
MARRYING AN APP – By Paige Nick
I often wish I was married. Wait, that came out wrong. I’ve never wished I was married. What I mean is that I often wish I had a wife.
In myday job I work closely with someone else’s wife, and I’m blown away by what she pulls off in a regular-sized day. Wives can multitask and have empathy at the same time.
I must be coming down with something, because I usually fantasize about having a wife when I’m particularly busy, or sick. I imagine how smoothly my house would run, and dream about never having to drink tea with little white dots floating in it, ‘cos the milk’s turning. Or I picture how rarely I would have black bags and toilet duck on my shopping list for three months straight, because I forget to pick them up every single time I go to the shops.
It was well after midnight, when my phone rang at a friend’s birthday party. It was a policeman. He’d driven past my home and noticed the garage door open. He discovered an unlocked side door, let himself in and found my phone number in a diary on my desk.
He informed me the house had been ransacked and I needed to look around and let him know what had been taken. My stomach sank when I stepped inside. The bedroom was a disaster. There were clothes and shoes thrown everywhere, drawers open and overflowing. Just how I’d left it.
I can tell you, it’s a low point in life when you have to look a brave police officer in the eye and tell him that you haven’t actually been burgled, you’re just a disorganized kind of girl who regularly can’t decide what to wear, and tends to leave half drunk cups of tea and reams of papers strewn all over the place.
And it’s not just about getting everything tidied. If it was I could just propose to SweepSouth; a handy app that conveniently delivers a wonderful human being to your home, to create order and clear a path through the chaos and clutter. Sure they will iron my underwear, but an app can’t make me soup when I’m sick, tell me what’s sexist, be my best friend, have my back, or help me find my keys.
So, as much as I’d love one, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that the whole wife thing is never going to fly for me. I’ll never be sorted, selfless or wise enough to be one, and I’ll never be lesbian enough, or have penis enough to get one.
Getting a husband won’t do the job either, there’s no point having two of us forgetting to buy light bulbs. My only consolation is that Jacob Zuma has a bunch of wives, and none of them have been able to stop him doing stupid things, yet.