Hijacked to Health

When Ressy hijacked me in her car, boy did I kick up a fuss.

Ressy is my wife, but that that doesn’t mean I follow her blindly. She has an obsession with health and a compulsion with nutrients and I must stay on guard. Mung beans are her potato chips. She visits the chiropractor like other women visit the spa. She spent $30 — thirty — on an organic papaya. I guess, though, I should tell you why she bought it in the first place.

There I sat, buckled into our Honda Odyssey, because Ressy issued a “Let’s talk” order, and she was behind the wheel. Instead of the usual scenic throughway we take whenever we need to smooth out an issue, we were surrounded by towering skyscrapers and the honk and din of Manhattan.

I had known Ressy would want to talk after last night. It had been an unusually hard day for me. My boss didn’t realize what a good job I was doing under difficult conditions. He came down really heavy. When I came home, Ressy was busy serving dinner to the children, and she barely listened to me. And that wasn’t right, I told her. Husband before children, isn’t that the order of priorities?