It Took Me Fifteen Years to Realise My Marriage Was Like That Gym Membership You Sign Up for in Janu…

Its taken me fifteen years to realise that my marriage resembled one of those gym memberships you take out in Januaryfull of grand intentions at the start, only to gather dust for the rest of the year.

The realisation began on a perfectly average Tuesday. I returned from work to find him sprawled across the sofa, one hand buried in a bag of crisps, eyes fixed on a zombie series hed watched for the third time.

Whats for dinner? he asked, not even glancing my way.

Something flicked inside me. Like hitting reset on your laptop and everything reverts back to factory settings.

I dont know, love. Whats for dinner? I answered, dropping my handbag on the table.

He looked at me, baffled, as if Id started speaking ancient Greek.

What do you mean you dont know? Youre always the one who cooks.

Am I? Fascinating observation. Anyway, Im off to dinner with the girls, I replied, sliding my coat on.

His face couldve been a poem. More of a haiku, actually. Brief, but packed with feeling.

That evening, I ate grilled sea bass, sipped chilled white wine, and laughed until my sides ached. When I got home at eleven, hed ordered pizza and the kids were over the moon.

Mum, why dont we eat like this more often? my youngest asked, ketchup smeared across his nose.

The next week, I went even further. Literally.

Im going to Greece this Friday, I announced over breakfast.

He nearly choked on his tea.

What do you mean, Greece? What about the kids?

Theyll be with you. Youre their dad, arent you? I believe in you.

But I have meetings! Important work!

I looked him dead in the eye.

What a coincidence. Ive had important work for the last fifteen years. And I always managed, somehow. Im sure you, with your brilliant mindas you love to remind everyonewill be just fine.

Off I went. Alonewell, technically with my cousin, but that hardly mattered.

On the first day, I received seventeen messages:

Wheres the PE kit?
How do you work the washing machine?
Does the pasta go in boiling or cold water?
Can the kids have cereal for dinner?

I replied to just one:
Google is your friend.

By day three, the messages had a different tone:

The kids want chicken nuggets again.
Do they always have this much homework?
Why are there so many parents meetings?

I didnt answer. I was far too busy, sipping an iced coffee by the sea, devouring a novel without being interrupted every five minutes.

When I returned home, the place looked as though a tornado had whipped through. Odd socks dangled from the ceilingI still have no clue how they got there. The dog was parading about the house with a sock perched on his head like a hat. My daughters bedroom glowed purple; shed repainted it using my lipstick.

My husband was curled upon the sofa, fetal position in full effect.

Youre home, he croaked. Thank God.

How did it go? I asked, suntanned and serene.

I honestly, how do you manage it all every single day? Itsinhuman.

Almost like a full-time job, isnt it?

He fell silent. The zombies on TV growled. So did he.

Im sorry, he finally whispered. I really am.

Since then, things have changed. Hes mastered three half-decent meals. All righttwo and a half, since his spaghetti is still hit-and-miss. He knows where the washing machine lives, how to survive parents evenings, and that the question Whats for dinner? is only valid if he plans to cook it himself.

I now travel every three months. Sometimes on my own, sometimes with friends. Never with a shred of guilt.

Last week, the neighbour caught me outside with eyes wide as saucers.

Do you really just leave your children with your husband and swan off? she asked incredulously.

Just like that, I nodded. He is their fathernot a babysitter.

But what if something goes wrong?

Then hell learn. The way I did, whenever I was left to get on with everything while he went to his critical meetingswhich ended up in the pub.

She fell quiet, chewing this over. I saw her at the airport a month later. She was off to Italy.

Turns out, karma isnt always out for revenge. Sometimes, its a patient teacher, offering lessons you should have picked up long ago. And if you refuse, it chucks you onto a crash course in real life.

Now, my husband boasts to his mates about how he can braid our daughters hair. They still look like nautical knots, but its the effort that counts.

Last night he asked me, Youve not got another trip coming up, have you? Just so I can brace myself.

Im thinking of Portugal for my birthday.

He let out a sigh of resignation.

How many days?

Ten.

Alright. I know where the first aid kit is this time.

I kissed him on the forehead, like you would a brave child on vaccination day.

Is it just me, or should Home Survival 101 be compulsory before marriage? Or are there other mad ones like me out there?