Martial arts in marital life

Master Yoda (illustration
If you weren't born with a gift to lie, get married. You'll become Master Yoda sooner than it takes you to master yodeling. 

(to master yodeling, it only takes you a pair of cogwheels and a little imprudence)

Thou shalt not stop practising marital arts for all your life. For the opponent practices too!

The previous commandment does not imply that the opponent is embodied in one single persona.

The best occassion to talk to your marital opponent alone is while you drive her to work in the morning. But, better leave it for later and give her a call. If for nothing else, then for the traffic security reasons. This stands even if you took your blood pressure medication prior to driving.

You don't have to know anything about plumbing, electricity or mechanics. You don't need to have organisational skills. She knows everything.

When it comes to real trouble, she'll call you. Because she doesn't.

A tip: if you want to become completely independent, get to know your washing machine!

The only way for your (relative) well being is to keep the so-called wife in a belief that you're not well. As soon as she figures out that you're okay, she'll make you not be okay.

Variation of the previous: if you're not well, the "so-called" will have a lot of occupations. If you are well, she will have just one obsession - figuring out why you're well.

Occasionally, it might be a good idea to let her steer the wheel, metaphorically. If you take the kids out, it will be your fault that they didn't do a homework. If you go to your workout alone, this will be a case of child neglect ("You only think of your own needs!"). If you let her decide, she'll regret it either way.

You do not need pediatricians, child psychologists, teachers, ... The so-called thinks she knows it all, and even better.

When anything happens to the kid, the so-called, now in the maternal role, gets paralyzed by panic. You are the one who applies first, second and third aid.

Real life example of what might happen when she's steering the wheel (this time not metaphorically) and having a panic attack simultaneously:

Bosnia, year 2002. Seven years after the war, NATO peacekeeping forces are still around. We're in the middle of nowhere. She drives.  On the rear seat, the baby starts to whine. He's thirsty, mom's cutie pie. At the very sound of baby's whining, genetically programmed, she turns her head back while still keeping the car moving. At that moment, an SFOR road blockade appears in front of us, securing the so-called High Representative - the impersonation of OHR, the bosnian counterpart of HRH of England, but only with more power and privileges. The US marines put themselves in a position to unleash fire upon us in self-defense, because she, still unaware of the "shift in the road conditions", is heading straight into the black marine with an M16 holding us at gunpoint, convinced that the little white Peugeot 205 is loaded with mujahedeens, their finger on a detonator, ready to divert the course of history. However unlikely this might seem, it really happened, and hadn't I steered away off the road and pulled the handbrake, I would have probably not been writing this article right now. be continued, for sure.
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