My wife is seldom satisfied. She has optimistically high expectations of life, so even when things are as close to perfect as they are going to get, there’s inevitably something that isn’t quite right for her (the list of areas where I don’t measure up is truly disturbing, so I’ll just keep that to myself for now).
For example, we went to the Steenberg Barnyard a few days ago to have breakfast. My wife wanted to go there specifically because she liked their farm-style bread. I managed to lock my keys in the car and spent a joyous half-hour trying to get them out again, but that’s another story. It wasn’t long after breakfast was served when she wrinkled her nose, dumped her cutlery on the plate in apparent disgust and declared, “They’ve changed the bread. It’s not as nice as it used to be”. To the untrained eye and palate the bread seemed to be exactly the same as I remember it from our previous visit, but I know better than to challenge such a verdict, so I just let her sulk through the remainder of the meal.
The exacting standards by which she judges the rest of the world would be easier to understand if she was a perfectionist, but she isn’t – not by a long shot. She’s content to live in utter squalor, while the detritus of daily living piles up around her. She is completely at ease with wearing wrinkled clothing that makes my hand reach for an iron out of reflex. She’s perfectly happy to let food burn on the stove until the bottom of the pot drops out (Cajun blackened charcoal is one of her specialities). I could go on.
I have long since recognised the futility of trying to fathom the convoluted paths of logic that twist their tangled way through her mind. I know she’s insane, but not dangerously so and that’s good enough for me.