We’re a team now, honey. That means we share everything. Finances? They’re our finances. The dining room table? That’s our table. And the male pattern baldness that has left my head as bare as a baby’s bottom? Well, dear, that’s our male pattern baldness now.
Do you remember our wedding day? It feels like just yesterday, even though it was really two days ago. I can still recall that feeling of being single, when I had full ownership of everything in my life. It felt good, but I’m ready to share now. I’m ready to split everything in two, whether it’s that giant piece of wedding cake or the genetic flaws that make my head look like the withered sprout garden Frank keeps trying to grow in the vacant lot next door. This is no longer my ugly balding head; this is our my ugly balding head, and I could not be more excited to share it with you.
It’s like that toaster that Frank gave us on our wedding day. That’s not my toaster. That’s not your toaster. That’s our toaster, and it makes toast for us. In just the same way, this is not my male pattern baldness or your male pattern baldness—this is our male pattern baldness, and it causes low-self esteem, preys on our insecurities, and makes us terrified to go out in public without a hat on.
Remember—there’s no ‘I’ in team. Nor is there any hair, because of the male pattern baldness our team now shares.
I know you’re a little upset because of the activity on your—I mean, our—credit card last week. But the three thousand dollars of Bosley hair replacement therapy I ordered wasn’t for me—it was for us. It was for our male pattern baldness. And it was a decision that we made together, even if you were gone all week on a business trip to Pittsburgh. I have no doubt that this was the right decision for us: while you remain skeptical of the many clear benefits of restorative hair therapy, I am not willing to be skeptical, and therefore as a team we balance each other out and our official stance is neutral.
Don’t forget—we will share much more than just our male pattern baldness. We’ve got our love of photography, so we can take pictures together. We’ve got our favorite television show, which we can watch together. And we’ve got the feelings of shame and personal inadequacy that have festered and grown since my mom walked in on me looking at porn when I was twelve. That’s ours now, too, honey. All ours.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve made mistakes in the past. I’m not forgetting when you had trouble forgiving me for posting a picture of George Clooney as my profile picture on JDate. It was false advertising, because he has hair, and it was against the rules. I already agreed to pay the fine. But we fell in love anyways, and so we will pay that fine together, as a team. ‘Til death do us part, or the Bosley hair replacement therapy starts working.
Honey, I know you’re busy. But we can be busy together. Just let me know what you’re doing, and we can do it as one. You have to drive to your mother’s house in New Jersey to reset the circuit breaker? Again? No way, honey—it’s not my fault she always tries to make Hot Pockets while straightening her hair. We’re not sharing your mother. That one is all you.