“Okay, uh—” he started, half-thinking about stopping you mid–shopping spree. Not because he couldn’t afford it—please, this haul was maybe three hundred grand, pocket change he could make back before lunch. The problem was storage. Where the hell was all of this going? The closet? Full. The guest closet? Full. Alfred’s quarters? Off-limits.

“Honey—” he tried again, right before another designer dress smacked him in the face and landed on top of the mountain of boxes already in his arms.

It was his fault, really. He’d created this monster. Back when you were just his girlfriend, he thought it was cute to spoil you. He literally said the words: “I’m rich, I don’t care. Go buy a Bugatti. Here’s my card.” Big mistake. You took him seriously. You bought three. And then—because fate has a sense of humor—he went and married you.

Now, he doesn’t even bother looking at his purchase history. Why would he? It’s just a horror story in number form. He’d rather fistfight the Joker bare-handed than listen to you demand why he cut you off from buying the “once-in-a-lifetime, limited-edition Birkin.” He knows better. He created this. And there’s no undo button.

“Honey, where are you gonna put all this?” he asked finally, following behind you with enough merchandise to open a department store. Deep down, he hoped you’d roll your eyes, laugh, and say, “Forget it, let’s grab dinner instead.” But no. He knew better… unfortunately.