My Husband Told Me He Was Bored of Me—So I Changed So Much That I Became Bored of Him

Author Walton MerrittReading 5 minViews 3

Nearly two years ago, I heard something from my husband that I will never forget. He said, You live your life so predictably that Im bored of you. Even though John found our life dull, I was happy with it. Id get up early each morning, have my breakfast, do some exercises, and get ready for work. My first task was always to help my husband prepare for his day, as he left the house early, before I finished getting myself ready. We always made our meals at home; Id pack lunch for both of us. Every evening on my way home, Id stop by the shop, then come in, cook, tidy up, and do a bit of laundry. Before bed a film, then sleep.

I truly thought I was right. Everything was perfect: my husband was looked after and well-fed, the house was clean and cosy. What more could I want? Every Saturday Id have a thorough clean, bake something delicious and cook a lovely meal. In the evening wed either have friends over or go out somewhere. Sundays were reserved for visiting our parents. Half the day with mine, half with his. Wed help them with errands, have a chat, and enjoy spending time with family.

In the evenings, wed rest at home. We never argued, never raised our voices. Our home was peaceful and harmonious. But One day, my husband told me he was bored of me. He sat for hours explaining how our life didnt satisfy him, comparing us to his friends who lived it up, having fun and living life to the fullest. Not like us. We didnt even argue, he said. So that day, he simply left.

I was completely content with our life and didnt want to change a thing. Yet, for my dear husbands sake, I was ready to do whatever it took, even if that meant changing myself. First, I decided to reinvent my look. I cleared out my wardrobe, went shopping and, using the money wed saved up for a cottage, bought heaps of new clothes. I cut my hair short and changed the colour. In short, I decided not to look boring anymore. Then, I found a new job. Not my usual desk job, but planning parties. My new job introduced me to all sorts of exciting entertainments.

A week later, John came back and was stunned by what he saw. From that day on, I promised him our lives would be entirely different. And they were. We were hardly ever at home. We were always out and about, meeting new people. Every night wed go to a club, a restaurant, a pub, a party, someones house anything to keep the excitement going. We might go camping, cycling, or kayaking. Some weekends wed just drive off to another city.

After a few months of our energetic, anything-but-boring life, John began saying he yearned for a bit of quiet, some peace, simply to sit at home. He missed proper home-cooked meals and my homemade bakes. I had no time at all to stand by the cooker anymore. Id changed so completely, John stopped longing for my company.

And another week later, John told me he couldnt keep up with such an active lifestyle. He wanted to return to the good old days, the quiet, comfort and calm. He wanted to spend evenings in, and visit parents at the weekends, eating real, fresh home foodnot snacks and takeaways.

But, by then, I realised I was no longer interested in that life. Id tried so hard to adapt to being a grown-up with responsibilities, but now I had no desire to return to how things were. I liked this new, lively way of living. Id enjoyed my old life too, but I wouldnt swap back now. This time, when my husband pleaded for things to go back to how theyd been, a proper row broke out.

In the end, it was his grand dream: plates smashed, neighbours came round, the police were called. My husband packed his things and went off to his mothers. Perhaps he expects to come back and find me as I used to be. But that simply wont happen. We arent characters in a film, ready to change at the flick of a switch. When John returns home, hell find divorce papers on the table and a note saying Im bored of him now, and I cant live with him any longer.

The Nuisance Next Door “Don’t you dare touch my spectacles!” shrieked my ex-friend. “Mind your own eyes! Think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “Are you actually jealous?” wondered Tamara Brown. “Now I see who’s caught your fancy! I know what I’ll get you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda. “Or maybe there’s no machine that could handle those lips of yours? Think I don’t see?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the battered bed and made her way to her home altar to read her morning prayer. She wouldn’t have called herself particularly religious: there was definitely something out there, someone calling the shots. But who? That was anyone’s guess. This driving power went by many names: fate, the universe, and of course, the Good Lord! Yes, a kindly old gentleman with a white beard and a halo, sitting on his cloud and keeping an eye on everyone here on Earth. Besides, Tamara was deep into her autumn years, approaching seventy. And at that age, best not to quarrel with the Almighty. After all, if He doesn’t exist, believers lose nothing. But if He does, unbelievers lose everything. At the end of her morning prayers, Tamara always added a few words of her own—why not? Ritual complete, and her soul at ease—it was time to face another day. Tamara Brown’s life was troubled by two things. And no, not the usual suspects—roads and fools—no, those problems were old news. Hers were: her neighbour Lynda, and her own grandchildren. With the grandkids, fair enough: today’s youth can be a pain. But at least they had parents—let them deal with it! But Lynda was an entirely different breed of headache: a neighbour who could get on anyone’s last nerve. Only in films do catfights between old dames look sweet; in reality, it’s something else entirely. Especially when you’re being picked on for no rhyme or reason. And then there was her old mate, Peter “Moped Pete”. His full Sunday name was Peter Ernest Champion. (It’s a real surname!) His nickname was easy enough to figure out: in his youth, Pete Champion—what a combo—was mad about his moped. Or, as cheeky young Pete used to call it, his “mopeddy”. The name stuck, and long after Pete’s rusty old moped gathered dust in the shed, the nickname clung to him—ah, the joys of country life! They used to be close friends: “Mopeddy” and his wife Nina, Tamara and her husband. But their partners had long since taken up residence in the local cemetery. Still, Tamara kept up with Mopeddy, having known him since school, and a better friend than Pete was hard to find. Back in their schooldays, they were an inseparable trio: Tamara, Pete, and Lynda—just pure old-fashioned friendship, without a hint of anything else. They went everywhere together: Pete in the middle, the two ladies on each arm, like a teacup with two handles. There are special cups like that—so they never slip from your grasp! Over the years, the friendship changed. Or rather, it ended—thanks mainly to Lynda, who first grew cold, then outright hostile after her husband’s passing. It was like that cartoon: I’ve started noticing, it’s as if someone’s swapped her out… Something in Lynda broke. She’d grown mean and spiteful—maybe it happens to some. Ladies can be like that. Gents too. And there was plenty to envy. First, despite her age, Tamara stayed trim while Lynda had grown… let’s say, well-rounded. “Madam, where shall we find your waist?” Not flattering by comparison. Second, their mutual school friend recently favoured quick-witted Tamara with more attention than Lynda. They’d share conspiratorial laughs and seemed practically glued at the head. With Lynda, conversation was terse and chilly. Besides, Pete popped by Tamara’s much more often, rarely needing much encouragement. Well, maybe she wasn’t as clever as witty Tamara—or as funny! Pete always loved a good laugh. There’s a fine old English idiom for Lynda’s new behaviour: nit-picking. She’d become a champion of petty grievances. First, she complained the loo in Tamara’s garden smelled awful. — “Your loo’s ponging again!” called Lynda. — “It’s stood there for years—you only just noticed?” said Tamara, biting back with, “Ah yes—your cataract surgery was free! You get what you pay for!” — “Don’t you dare touch my spectacles!” screamed her former friend. “You look after your own eyes! Think I don’t see who you’re staring at?” —“Are you jealous or something?” asked Tamara. “Well, I know just what to get you for Christmas: a lip-zipping machine!” —“Keep it for yourself!” Lynda fired back. “Or maybe nothing could fix those lips! Think I don’t see?” And on, and on… Pete suggested filling in the outside loo and having one built in the house. Tamara’s children helped fund it, and the family friend Pete did the digging. Problem solved—or so one would hope. But no! It was the pear tree branches next—supposedly damaged by Tamara’s grandchildren. —“They must’ve thought it was ours!” Tamara tried to explain. Though she wasn’t convinced—nothing looked robbed to her. “Look, your hens peck through my veg patch, and I never complain!” —“Chickens are stupid creatures—nothing but egg-layers,” shot back Lynda. “Grandma, you ought to mind the grandchildren, not giggle with gents all day!” So it went. The grandkids got a scolding; pear season came and went; and then Lynda found “damage” to the branches. —“Where? Show me!” asked Tamara. She couldn’t see a thing, but Lynda jabbed a knobbly finger vaguely in their direction. Old Peter, always diplomatic, suggested lopping off the branches that hung over Tamara’s fence. —“She’ll only shout again!” sighed Tamara. —“Wanna bet?” grinned Pete. “I’ll back you up!” Just as predicted, Lynda huffed but stayed silent as Pete did the sawing. Peace? Not quite. Tamara soon had her own vexation: Lynda’s new breed of chickens were tearing up her veg patch. She politely asked Lynda to keep them in check. Lynda just sneered, “What are you gonna do about it?” Now, Tamara was too kind for drastic measures—like roasting an offending hen. Instead, clever Pete suggested the latest online hack: plant a few eggs on the veg patch overnight, then collect them in the morning as proof. It worked: the next morning, Lynda’s jaw dropped as Tamara collected a bowlful of “garden-fresh eggs”. The hens never reappeared. Maybe now they could be friends again? Not a chance. Now the neighbour complained about the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen. —“Since when do you notice? Never bothered you before. Maybe the whiff of roast beef bothers me too! Ever think of that, Miss Vegetarian?” At last, Tamara’s patience snapped. Lynda, quite simply, “had gone off the rails”—another wonderful English phrase. Over tea with Pete, Tamara joked, “Maybe she should be sent off for scientific research—she’ll end up devouring me whole!” —”She’d choke on you! And I’d never let it happen,” Pete reassured her. “But I’ve got a better idea!” A few days later, Tamara heard Pete calling out: “Tammy, Tammy, come outside!” There he was, beaming, on his newly mended vintage moped—Pete and his Mopeddy! —“You know why I’ve been so glum?” he grinned. “My moped’s been broken all this time!” —“Hop on, beautiful, let’s go for a ride! Let’s relive our youth!” And hop on she did! After all, old age has now been officially abolished by Parliament: everyone’s an active pensioner at 65+! Tamara rode off, quite literally, into her new life. Soon, she became Mrs. Champion herself: Peter Ernest Champion popped the question! Old puzzle pieces fell into place, and Tamara moved in with her husband. And Lynda? Well, she stayed behind—a lonely, chubby, bitter old biddy. Now, if that’s not a reason for a new bout of jealousy, what is? With no one left to squabble with, Lynda had to stew alone, her toxic sniping bottled up inside. No more sparring partners… So hang on tight, Tammy, and don’t step out of the house! Who knows what else the village will bring? Life here is a soap opera set to music. All that fuss about the loo for nothing…