If love could be described mathematically, surely Newton and Einstein would have done it already. Unfortunately, love has no spinning wheels or gears that can be measured with a caliper, no balance sheet that a bean counter can apply his ratios to. For you (being terminally diagnosed as Married-n-Bored), no solid answers exist. You live each day in the unknown Purgatory of ’til death do us part.’ Some logical answers would be nice, especially to the question regarding love and money.
You may have noticed while going around on the marital ferris wheel-o-fun that your income can have an effect on affection from your wife. Most obvious of all, you couldn’t help but notice yourself on the receiving end of a blow-job the day you got a raise. More subtly, a year later when you were fired you contracted pink eye almost immediately. This was not a coincidence, my friend. You loving wife responds to the pheremones of your pay stub. The ink that is used to print that extra zero drives her wild, like the Funky Cold Medina. When that pay stub stops getting printed, the pheremone goes away, forcing her to sleep with as many men as it takes to get you motivated again.
To make sense of this situation, a graph has been put together to describe her love as a function of income. Here is a description of the graph:
You earn $10,000/year: Ah, the salad days, the honeymoon phase, the “cleanup on aisle 9” phase. She wants you all the time. At this level of income, an anomaly in the curve is happening. Put simply, if she loves you when you are making $10,000 a year, she really enjoys your company and the two of you have lots of love to share. No headaches, no problems. It’s six hours of sex a day. You can only afford oatmeal. You have so much sex and oatmeal that you have penis and stomach bunions.
$20,000/year: She’s gotten to know you now, and the ink on that pay stub wafts through the air every two weeks. She realizes that you have potential. Suddenly she has no love for you at all unless you set up long-term goal schedules for one, five, ten, and thirty year ranges. In case you forget, she will be subtly remind you of your failures.
$40,000/year: The path to success is near. Nothing gets her hotter in the bedroom than hearing you’ve finally made assistant manager to the vice president of accounts payable. She asks to be spanked with the nameplate on your desk. That only happens once, however. Afterward, you can bet she has a headache. You are still a small fry, lazy and not pushing hard enough. Enjoy jacking off once a week during this stage. Keep telling yourself things will improve.
$60,000/year: Upward mobility is the name of the game. She is Lady Macbeth and it won’t be long before you kill your best friend Banquo to get ahead. You’ve started to travel more for your job selling bunion remover. At this level, you have actually convinced yourself that the product you hock will make the world a better place. You’ve read “How to Win Friends and Influence People” five times and become a gladhanding shell of manhood. Thank you, Dale Carnegie!
$80,000/year: You’ve already had an affair with two different secretaries, but your confidence is high, your wife is turned on just by looking at your silk shirt and power tie. You can’t leave the pay stub laying around the house or she will suffocate while sniffing it. She bangs you like a harlot at night and acts like Martha Stewart during the day.
$100,000/year: The nineteen year old kid that mows your lawn is laying your wife like sod. The house of love comes crashing down when you make Vice President of Accounts Payable. She considers you to be a soulless workaholic incapable of intimacy. Now that you’ve built up a nest egg, her divorced friends start giving directions to her about how to eat that nest egg like a snake does: whole. You are about to get the fisting of a lifetime and don’t even know it yet because you are playing poker in Tuscaloosa after a big bunion-remover deal was signed.
Beyond $100,000 a year you enter a smug, all-knowing and married-and-even-more-bored phase. You quote the Wall Street Journal to complete strangers. She resents you for working so hard over the years and reminds you about your neglect. While vacationing together on a private island, she sleeps with a pirate just for revenge. At first you are enraged that she has cheated on you, but then a quiet calm comes over you. Even as you watch her being happily ravished by the filthy pirate’s wooden leg, you smile and sleep easy that night knowing that in the morning the pirate will have to go out and hijack a cruise ship just to make the nag happy. Thirty years of being manipulated was enough for you. Sadly, that very same night you will almost certainly catch malaria and spend your remaining days writhing in your own messy pants.
Forever your doormat,