This is how I know it's bad

Mario irons his shirt for the next day, every evening. To say that he is fastidious about his clothing is putting it mildly. Always perfect, always with crisp, knife sharp creases, shirt cuffs turned back at exact angles, ready to receive his cufflinks.

Soon after I moved in with him, I was home alone one evening while he was off working. My thoughts turned to the fact that, whenever he finally made it home, he would have to iron a shirt. Being young (okay, youngER), I immediately saw an opportunity to remind him how much I loved him: I would iron his shirt. No, wait, I would iron all his shirts! I mean, I had previously been married for nine years, and had ironed literally thousands of shirts in that time, no big deal.

Our laundry room is downstairs, but I knew this was an all-evening project, so I dragged the ironing board up to the livingroom and began. After something wild like twenty five shirts, I gave up, simply because I couldn't fit anymore in the closet without crushing them.

Several hours had elapsed by this time, so I decided to wait up for him. When he finally made it home, I took him by the hand and proudly opened our closet, so he could see what I had done. He looked at me with such love, tenderness, pride, and appreciation; he just couldn't believe I had spent so much time being so thoughtful. A good night for us.

The next morning, I got out of the shower and couldn't find Mario. I finally went downstairs, where I found him "touching up" the way I ironed his shirt. To be honest, I wasn't upset in the least; part of me laughed at the situation, and the other part of me said, "SCORE, now I never have to iron again!!!"

And, in almost four years, I never have.

Tonight, I got home from work at midnight. Mario was hanging over his crutches in the livingroom, clearly in pain. And he shamefully admitted that he didn't think he could manage to iron his clothes, and would I do it for him?

Oh God, it's really bad this time.