I may have finally come to terms with the fact that it’s not going to work out between the Farmer and I. There are the usual practical problems that arise when you take the triangular peg of fantasy and try to jam it into the square hole of reality (so to speak). Things like existing relationships and the small matter of reciprocation. But then there are other obstacles, too.
For example, here’s a perfectly plausible scenario that might occur if the Farmer and I, in some crazy mix-up of the universe, somehow found ourselves shacking up together:
The Farmer wakes up at the crack of dawn and gets ready to hit the fields. Meanwhile, I remain lazily in bed. He looks at me with disdain. When he gets home after a hard day’s work, I’m pretty much in the same position as he left me. Dinner is uncooked despite a plethora of vegetables at my disposal. As diplomatically as possible, he asks me where the hell his dinner is. I say something like, “What, it’s not on the table? Swear to god, it was there a minute ago.” With resentment simmering, there would be nothing left to do but engage in grueling, angry sex.
Ah, to be the lazy wife of a hard-working farmer. It looks so good on paper.