- A pre-baby body. Not mine.
- A hole in the yard in which to bury items of great shame.
- A gift card, but not to somewhere that also sells hair removal.
- A lack of male virility in the coming year.
- Fewer carcinogenic cleaning products and/or reasons/opportunities to clean things.
- No eye contact.
- Personal space.
- Time alone in a bathtub that doesn’t have that weird pink stuff on it which might be salmonella.
- A non-reciprocal airing of grievances.
- To not have to hear the appliances running. They are oppressive.
- A vasectomy.
- A vasectomy.
- A vasectomy.
- A venti breakfast cocktail, hold the mix.
- No more Thomas the Incompetent Train.
- Less pee on the floor, please. I don’t care whose it is. It isn’t mine. Less, please.
- A trip to Paris that turns into living in Paris.
- A meal made of ingredients found in the kitchen independently through a process of opening cupboards and the fridge. No questions. No goddamn questions.
- No bare scrota on the furniture.
- An hour or two to be angsty about aging gracefully and how that’s for poor people.
- Do not suggest we go to that diner you like that I think smells like dying.
- Grocery delivery.
- An IV filled with something relaxing I can plug into my arm while watching TV.
- For you to move the alarm clock to your side of the bed.
- Just no scrota, really. That’s the main thing. Underwear over every genital.
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