No, he didn’t cheat on me. And no, I didn’t cheat on him. There’s been no 911 calls, no visits from child services, and no threats to cut off the electricity.
So what happened? I took a great new job with an awful commute. Let me break it down for you: 3 subways and a bus. Twice a day, every day.
I hate commuting, but I only just learned that it’s actually bad for your health and your marriage. Commuting, according to this article in Slate, “correlates with an increased risk of obesity, divorce, neck pain, stress, worry, and sleeplessness. It makes us eat worse and exercise less.”
One study estimates that each minute spent commuting is associated with “a 0.0257 minute exercise time reduction, a 0.0387 minute food preparation time reduction, and a 0.2205 minute sleep time reduction.”
Well that’s just great.
Working longer hours is already bound to put a strain on my marriage (on the other hand, the extra money might go toward a new car, which my husband has been grousing about since we bought our awesome 1997 Toyota Corolla that has had ZERO problems and four robust wheels that get us from point A to B, but whatever). Add to that me becoming an obese, insomniac, humorless commuter who survives on hot pockets and pizza bagels, and bitches about being groped by an accordian player on a crowded subway platform, and this is not a recipe for domestic bliss.
Let me look at the bright side. Wait, I can’t think of one.