Áilín Quinlan: A tale of 2 cars, 2 scratches... and a domestic battle of the sexes
“Once I’d calmed down and driven home, I parked so the scratch was faced away from the house. I was positive he didn’t see it”
A life lesson if ever there was one.
Here’s the thing.
Some weeks previously, I had a need to drive my husband’s car.
I was only running down to Centra for a few scones.
But when I returned to where I’d left the car, I found that a van had parked a bit too near me, effectively hemming me in close to a rough-hewn stone wall.
Now I had to either reverse out of a tight space or wait for the van driver to come back. Carefully, so very carefully, I edged gently backwards.
Ah, me, why didn’t I just wait.
There was a thin, metallic screech and when I got out to investigate, I found the wall had etched a deep scratch into the passenger side.
This was so unfair! Oh my God!
Once I’d calmed down and driven home, I parked so the scratch was faced away from the house. I was positive he didn’t see it.
The next time he needed his car, I generously suggested he use mine, saying that his was almost out of petrol.
They grinned.
“I mean it,” I warned them. “Not a word. No beating on that goddamn bush telegraph, now.”
“I suppose you were only running down to Centra for a few scones,” one of them said, smirking.
They all spluttered.
“But that’s exactly what I was doing,” I said, extremely surprised.
Big guffaw.
Anyway, to my great relief, it got fixed.
But here’s the thing.
Some weeks later, I noticed a long, thin, deep scratch running along the side of MY car. I stared at it, puzzled.
And now that I was looking, something was not right with the wing mirror on the passenger side.
I peered a bit closer. It was being held in place by the adroit application of lashings of heavy black masking tape.
I investigated. There were several other scratches which I most definitely hadn’t inflicted, and the gentlest pressure on the wing mirror suggested that if it hadn’t been for the masking tape, the whole thing would be hanging down the side of the car.
I wasted no time.
“Did you break my wing mirror and scratch the side of my car?” I inquired coldly.
Lads, not as much as a flicker of guilt or remorse.
He actually had to think about it.
“Oh, yeah,” he said eventually.
“I did.”
“Well why didn’t you tell me about it?” I screeched.
A flash from those ice-blue eyes of his.
“Why didn’t you tell me about what you did to mine?” he countered, smirking.
I ignored this.
He’d ordered a new mirror online, he said, and he’d fix it himself when he got around to it.
“Well, get around to it,” I snarled.
“And what about all those scratches?”
He sniffed.
“No point paying to get them covered ’til you’ve added a few of your own to make it worth my while,” he observed. “Not that it’ll take long, I’d say.”
Stalemate.
He went to his shed, I to the computer, where I googled Relationship Double Standards.
I printed out the advice, brought the pages out to the shed, and requested that he switch off the saw.
“What?” he grumbled. “I’m busy.”
I explained about how double standards were deleterious to a marriage.
“When your car was scratched by that wall, I was so worried about it, I got it fixed ASAP,” I observed calmly.
Yet, I said, not only had he badly scratched my car, he’d also smashed the wing mirror.
And done nothing about any of it.
“I fixed the mirror with masking tape,” he said grumpily.
“And I ordered a new one.”
“Well, where is this new mirror?” I demanded.
God only knows how long that thing had been hanging on by its fingernails.
When did it happen?
He wasn’t sure.
Where did it happen?
Couldn’t remember.
How did it happen?
No comment.
This was a blatant case of Relationship Double Standards, I declared.
I read him out a bit of the Relationship Double Standards advice: “When you start discussing issues, your partner may react defensively.”
He didn’t feel defensive, he said, very calmly.
“This is so unfair,” I shouted. “When that wall scratched your car, I got it fixed before you noticed a thing.”
“And now you’ve gone and absolutely wrecked my car and done nothing about it!”
“Sure, I knew you wouldn’t notice,” he said imperturbably.
“I did so notice,” I shrieked. “I noticed it now!”
He smirked.
“How long has my car been like this?” I yelled.
He smiled.
“You’re stamping your foot,” he said and switched his saw back on.
I want to be reincarnated as an Irish male just to experience what it’s like to always feel in the bloody right.
App?
