Dispute over the money
"Can you pay, darling?" he casually asks, as if asking, "When will the movie finally start?" A sentence like a snakebite. At half past three in the taxi at the front door, we tipsy, but by no means too tired to negotiate who should pay what. All right, he invited me to eat in three digits, then I'll do the 20 Euro taxi. And count. Equally 40 euros for the babysitter, the gift for the birthday child I had worried. Makes 80 euros. For all the little things. For a boring evening with his friends in an overpriced restaurant on the harbor. We get out, I say, "80 Euro! With your 100 for the food, we would be 180. Makes 360 mark for a shit night." The ridiculous D-Mark argument, usually his own, always pulls. I mean, out of 360 marks some families eat for a whole month. "Ungrateful," he says. "I invite you to dinner, and you are complaining about the taxi fare?" The evening is gone. Not a romantic nightcap, instead love-stuttering dispute, subject: who spends more money on nonsense, and how to divide sensible. Not so easy, when one person earns a lot and a lot and the other can only work the few hours the child is cared for.
For me logically: Who has net double the other has to pay more in everyday life significantly more. Or? By the way, disputes over tasteless furnishings, ex-girlfriends or proper parenting are harmless. Money dispute is existential because it reveals the lack of all bases of relationship: trust, generosity, friendship and a broadly similar understanding of justice. Everything could be so easy. You just need a bit of tolerance and the most basic mathematical skills: plus, minus, multiply and - share!
Sharing is hard. Already as a child I found it unfair that my grandparents transferred 80 marks a month for a Carlito to Ecuador, instead of dividing the money between their grandchildren. Guests of my parents, who brought for me and my sister a bar of chocolate "to share", I found inexpressible. To this day, I have been secretive, separate accounts ever since I forgot my statements on the kitchen table. He asked, "Do you actually drink ten latti macchiati a day, and what kind of beauty company did you transfer 200 euros for?" I said, "And you're wearing hand-sewn shoes, you're tearing 500 euros for a World Cup card, even though we need a new washing machine!" Worst are the little things, yes on certain days, even a reduced five-pack milk cuts for 99 cents lead to dispute. But should two adults now create lists, motto: I Taxi, you bread, I meat, you wine, I diapers, you porridge? Would the argument then come to an end? The other day at dinner, my husband said, "Actually, I even paid for the birthday gift you bought me, because if your account is overdone later, I'll have to make up for it someday." Now again very slowly: I spend only my self-earned money, calmly compare butter prices on the refrigerator shelf in the supermarket, while the little one throws himself in front of the children's Pinguis roaring on the back. Then I miss the time when I did not have a child, my income was more than twice as high as now, I had money and time for final sales in all the boutiques in the city. Maybe we should just swap roles: My husband would wake up at night when the little one cries, wrap him, make porridge, put on clothes, take him to the childminder in the morning, shop with him and build duplo farms for hours in the afternoon. That little bit of laundry? No problem. With ear plugs, he would also have easy time reading the newspaper, he says (while clearing the small shelves and checking all batteries and Lego blocks for resistance to swallowing). He would only have to halve his working time. And, oh yes, his salary would then probably only half. Financially, unfortunately, totally unprofitable. But one thing would be clear. In every taxi, in every supermarket, at every takeaway and at every toy shop, I would say, "Can you pay, darling?"
