Hello readers! I’m Uncle Matty, here for your help, but please be advised to swim at your own risk. I am not a doctor, therapist, lawyer, or man of the cloth. My professional certifications are limited to slinging cocktails and umpiring. If you have serious medical, financial, legal, or faith-based questions, please seek more appropriate help.
I am guilty of making many questionable life decisions. The hope is to pass along my hard learned wisdom so that my mistakes are not replicated. For so many reasons, it may be difficult to ask for advice, whether it be from close friends or relatives. So, if you have nothing to lose, why not ask Uncle Matty?
For the first few columns, I have solicited questions from friends and family.
Uncle Matty,
My husband and I are both avid skiers and hikers, but he is considerably faster and refuses to wait for me to catch up with him. I am usually left to ski or hike alone, meeting him either at the lift (sometimes he just laps me) or a summit, rarely having the shared experience that I was hoping to enjoy with my partner. He just wants to go as fast as possible, while I prefer to go slower and enjoy the experience (yes, there’s a whole separate conversation in there that we won’t discuss, and certainly not with you). How can I get him to slow down?
Anonymous
P.S. For the last time, please close your shades when you’re at home!
Dear Anonymous,
I can relate to your problem, having been there myself, on both sides of the equation (usually the slow poke).
I don’t ski much these days because my gouty big toe is a wild card, and I also suffer from high arches (dancer’s feet) which makes for excruciating pain when stuffing my bent dogs into the medieval torture device more commonly known as a ski boot. So, I’m not much help there.
But there is nothing (other than golf) that I enjoy more than a good stretch of the legs in the woods, especially in the company of a lady-friend.
The first time that I met Ingrid, she beat me out of three beers, two pickled eggs, and a shot of Jaeger in darts. Without so much as a grin. I was immediately smitten.
During the days and nights that we spent together, when not hustling darts or going to underground arm-wrestling matches (she was small, but strong-great odds), we would explore The Green Mountains. Ingrid was a hiking machine, a 90 -pound billy goat, and she wore the cutest little frown while grunting her way up a trail. Of course, I couldn’t keep up with her. And after hanging out with her for a few weeks and living on a diet of her homebrew, pâté and sausages (homemade!), my gouty big toe was throbbing, and I could barely walk. She would be hundreds of feet above me, yelling down “Beeil dich, fetter Arsch!”. So adorable.
After a few hikes, I decided to try and slow Ingrid down so that we could spend more time together talking (she had fascinating stories about lugging kegs on her tiny hips through the Biergarten wearing necklaces of Thuringer). I knew that because she was so petite and burned so much energy climbing that she had to constantly refuel, so I made sure to pack her beloved liverwurst and onion sandwiches, with extra mustard, along with the knockwurst and beer, in my backpack. I foolishly believed that my little manipulation had worked. Ingrid did double back a few times to stop her low blood sugar shakes, as I had planned, to throw down some Braunschweiger and scarf from her growler. But she seemed resentful. Usually, when she called me her big “Warmduscher” it had a sweetness to it, but this last time it sounded hurtful. I think that she knew that I had manipulated her and was resentful.
Soon after, Ingrid packed up her dart cases and moved back to Milwaukee. I follow her on Instagram, watching her make pâté and liverwurst. She also has an Only Fans account that specializes in sausage shaming, but I don’t subscribe. I think she’s doing well, having recently gotten sponsored by Düsseldorf mustard.
Be honest with your husband, he’ll probably appreciate that you still enjoy his company, and it may even bring you both closer together. But let him rip a few runs on his own, too. If that doesn’t work, start feeding him sausage and pâté until he gets the gout. That’ll slow him down.
