WHAT is it that attracts us to each other? Looks? Personality? Humour?
I’m no expert but if I say so myself, I was a bit of a genius when it came to choosing a partner all those years ago. Who would have thought a 19 year old could see so far into the future? While others were rating good looks and personality, I looked deeper.
For starters, I saw yer man was not inclined to drink...at all.
OK, perhaps in truth I wasn’t immediately aware this was a gold star quality to have in a boyfriend, but I soon learned. If you are not too sure why, let me enlighten you,
“Imagine never having to get a taxi home from a night out?”
I am that person. As I listen to friends often heated ‘discussions’ as to who is the designated driver, I congratulate myself on my youthful wisdom. Sitting into the waiting car after a night out I often find myself falling a little more in love, nothing at all to do with the alcohol I’ve consumed.
Yes, my younger self was indeed brilliant, a real forward thinker. Not for a moment was I swept away by yer man’s Cork accent and love of GAA, instead I noted the fact he had a head for figures. Not my perfect 19 year old figure, now dead and buried, but the ones that come on statements from the bank. As it turns out that observation was a stroke of genius, for I have no idea where I’d be today if I’d chosen someone with the rather relaxed attitude to bills, money and banks I have.
Take last week for example. Yer man asked me to transfer money from one account to another. Engrossed in Coronation Street, I nodded, paying no attention to fine details such as what account he wished me to transfer the money into.
“So you’re OK to do that?” I heard in the distance.
“How stupid do you think I am?” I replied.
Days later I searched yer man’s orderly folders for details of the account he wished me to credit. Unfortunately, there was a choice I’d not anticipated. Unwilling to appear as stupid as I was in this situation I went with the logic, any account will do. The IBAN number almost killed me, but I’m a quick learner and after a few clicks my job was done.
Three days later yer man stood between me and the television, serious looking folder in hand.
“I thought you transferred that money?”
“I did,” I replied.
“Into what account?”
Yikes, my ‘any account will do approach’ didn’t seem such a great idea now. “I’m not sure,” I replied.
“OK, well what bank?” he asked.
Oh, dear. I looked in the folder he was holding. “That one,” I said after leafing through a few pages.
For a moment yer man seemed to have lost the ability to speak but eventually exited spluttering and muttering. I waited for a decent second or two before resuming watching television. Minutes later, Himself and his folder were back.
“You know that account number you used, it’s only an example of an account. It doesn’t really exist!”
Thankfully, many years of marriage have taught me how to deal with a situation such as this. I paused, looked him in the eye and said, “Whoops.”
Since then I’ve not ventured to ask if he’s managed to locate the missing money, but as the folder has been returned to where it lives I suspect all accounts are now in order.
Of course, yer man has only himself to blame. Obviously all those years ago when I was looking beneath the surface, he was blinded by my stunning good looks and personality. Now he must live with the consequences.
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