Despite occasionally making fools of themselves in public, husbands fulfill various functions which are beneficial and important to society.
Besides carrying unwieldy appliances, moving heavy furniture, and opening tightly-sealed containers, husbands are useful for taking out the trash—dry or wet, plastic or paper—rain or shine, given proper training and motivation.
But of the many duties husbands perform, nothing compares to the task of driving their wives to their destinations, whether for business or pleasure.
As a skill, manipulating a four-wheeled vehicle through the city’s chaotic streets is difficult enough.
However, as an errand, driving your spouse—who is usually running late for an important appointment—requires the patience of a saint, the willpower of a workaholic, and the luck of a lotto winner.
This has been my lot for the past year or so, especially since my wife has refused to take driving lessons.
Although I continue to beat deadlines, I have also become my wife’s part-time driver, bringing her to various functions all across the city as the need arises.
God knows it remains a thankless chore, like washing dishes, fixing the plumbing, and cleaning out the cat’s litter box (all of which I have also managed to do).
But then again, I’m not complaining.
For services rendered, I have been generously paid with regular lip action, the occasional shake in the sheets, and vows of undying love.
Recently however, I have begun to doubt whether I have received just compensation.
Just a few weeks ago, my wife—a US government scholar—was invited to a party thrown by the American Ambassador to the Philippines.
Upon receiving the invitation, she conveniently forgot that she was married—an error which I hoped was accidental. I saw that she had faxed back a form confirming her attendance, which also indicated that she would be driven by someone identified as Robert.
It was an oversight I conveniently ignored, to my great dismay.
As the event drew near, I sent my blazer—the only one I owned—to the cleaners so that I could make a good impression on the diplomats.
After all, drinking free beer while wearing semi-formal attire doesn’t look half as bad as getting drunk with a T-shirt on as you feast on appetizers.
It turns out that I would neither have the occasion to wear the blazer nor drink beer, let alone any cold beverage. Nor would I have the opportunity to rub elbows with consular officials.
On the day of the party, my wife told me that she would go to the event unaccompanied—a euphemism which meant that her bitter half would be left behind.
Despite having resented her decision, the part-time driver brought her to the embassy, finding very little consolation in avoiding reckless bus drivers, wayward traffic enforcers, and posters of Bayani Fernando.
I wore a T-shirt and shorts, thinking if I was going to wait for two hours in the car I might as well be comfortable.
Photo above taken in Boracay during our first visit in 2006. Ms. Crazy never wanted to drive, then and now.