My wife is in charge of the checkbook and has been since we first got married. This was something we agreed on in advance of our wedding day, mostly because of the education my wife received as a business major. The fact that I was still keeping my money under an ice cube tray in the freezer also contributed to this decision. The truth is, even back when my wife’s love for me blinded her to most of my shortcomings, she could still see that putting me in charge of the checkbook was like putting a Rhesus monkey in charge of...

Well, the checkbook.

This is because I am not a numbers person. While some people are able to solve complex mathematical equations dealing with numerical sequences and the square root of a hypotenuse triangle, others, like myself, still haven’t figured out the correct way to read a tape measure:

Hmmm, looks like exactly seven feet, eight inches—plus about three little lines…

We recently looked into the cost of re-carpeting the living room. This, of course, meant determining square footage. For me, this was like calculating a trajectory for orbiting the planet Mars. After a series of failures that, had they gone unchecked, would’ve equaled enough material to carpet the entire house and most of the front lawn, I turned to the Internet for help. It was there that I found an actual grade school math activity called “Henry Carpets the Classroom,” which teaches seventh graders how to calculate square footage.

It was thanks to this website that I was able to determine the correct measurements by hiring a  seventh-grader to do it for me.

I am not ashamed of this.

I knew full well that my wife would find out when she balanced our account at the end of the month. But, as man of the house, I have nothing to hide.

“Who’s Mr. Reggie Wilkins?”

“It’s on the check.”

“...Carpet consultant?”

“Yeah, I wanted a second opinion.”

“About what? Nap?”

It was at this point that my wife looked directly at me. I know this can only mean one of two things: Either she’s forgotten to put in her contacts and wants to make sure the man she’s talking to in the grocery store is indeed her husband, or she’s expecting a reasonable answer in regard to something questionable that I’ve done. Since we weren’t in the grocery store, I deduced that she was looking for a reasonable answer, which, in this case, left me with only one viable response:

“FINE — then maybe I should balance the checkbook?”

The hope here was that the mere threat of me handling our financial affairs would be so frightening that it would stun my wife to silence. This is known as a calculated risk, which is about as close to mathematical equations I get.

And, much like the few equations I’ve attempted, this one didn’t work either.

“Okay — it’s all yours,” my wife said, and left.

This meant either a) admitting to my wife that I was incapable of balancing our checkbook, or b) faking my own death and starting over in another country, preferably one that doesn’t use the metric system.

Because I love my wife (and because there’s no escaping the metric system anywhere outside of the U.S.), I swallowed my pride, admitted the truth, and offered a sincere apology. In addition, I also offered to enroll in a personal finance course so that, at some point, I really COULD take over the checkbook and give her a much-needed break.

My wife appreciated this.

She also appreciated my willingness to let her check out the cost of a Rhesus monkey, first.

(You can write to Ned Hickson at nedhickson@icloud.com or at the Siuslaw News, 148 Maple St., Florence, Ore. 97439)