My Husband Makes More Than Me and I’m Okay With That… Most of the Time

I followed my husband to another country for his job. But what about my career?
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My Husband Makes More Than Me and I’m Okay With That… Most of the Time

I followed my husband to another country for his career … but now I’m feeling a little like a “kept woman.”

-Emily Southwood

woman piggy bank

I wasn’t exactly shocked when I felt the first pangs of a sore throat the other day. For even though cold season is on its way out, I’m the kind of yin constitution that attracts colds and flu like celebrities attract DUIs. While I would usually rely solely on my go-to herbal remedies, this one felt serious, so I hoofed it down to the medical clinic. Low and behold, I left with a prescription for Penicillin and Vicodin and strict orders to get my booty to bed.

Being no stranger to a bout of Strep, I will admit that at times I’ve relished in the reprieve of a few days rest. Who doesn’t love occasional permission to watch afternoon talk shows, especially, ahem, sedated? So as I drove home from the doc, I was pleased for a break from the daily slog (I’m personal assistant to a B Hollywood personality) and happy I’d have the apartment solo to convalesce. My husband (a cinematographer) was busy with pre-production meetings for his upcoming shoot. So confined to the couch, throat pain and headache nullified by handy white pills, I felt—if not exactly blissful, at least comfy and adequately zoned out for a nice long catch up session with my DVR.

I thought two days away from my day job would be sufficient but as Wednesday rolled into Thursday and Friday hazily approached I still felt like numbed-out crap. No work for me. But alas, I was still relatively at ease where I lay stoned on the couch, spooning yogurt, often missing my mouth. But with meetings over, hubby was around more—loading gear in and out of our apartment, making a million phone calls, and banging out spreadsheets at the kitchen table. And let me tell you, there is nothing like productivity happening around you to make you feel like a sack of useless starch.

By Saturday my DVR was depleted and even Netflix wasn’t cutting it. I’d watch ten minutes of Weeds, five of the rather unfortunate Love Happens, read two sentences of a novel, then turn the TV off and stare at the wall.

“Feeling any better, Hon,” my hubby called.

“Not really,” I croaked…


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