Impulse Control? I Don’t Know Her.

It started, as most minor disasters do, with what seemed like a harmless idea. “Wouldn’t it be cool if we made our own bread from scratch?” The words barely left my mouth before my partner let out a sigh—one borne of years of experience, the kind that speaks volumes without uttering a single word. His expression, an expert blend of amusement and cautious resignation, told me everything: he already knew what was coming.

Most couples argue over mundane household matters—what to eat for dinner, whose turn it is to take out the trash, why the laundry basket is a chaotic wasteland of mismatched socks. But our disagreements exist in a slightly different realm. We argue about why I just spent $300 on specialty cheese because, for one fleeting moment, I was convinced I was destined to become a world-class fromager. I don’t simply buy things; I dive headfirst into intense, short-lived love affairs with every new obsession that strikes me. My partner, the unsung hero of financial disaster prevention, has spent years perfecting the art of stopping me from ruining us entirely.

At this point, he’s developed a subtle yet powerful technique: gentle wallet confiscation. The approach is never direct, never combative—it’s all in the questions, each one carefully designed to nudge me toward financial reason.

“Do we have space for a pottery wheel?”

“Are we actually moving off-grid, or did you just watch another sustainable living documentary?”

“Is five gallons of organic honey a normal quantity for one household?”

It’s important to note that he never outright says no to my impulses. He knows better than to stand in the direct path of my enthusiasm. Instead, he masterfully redirects my chaos toward endeavors that won’t lead us to bankruptcy.

Instead of buying an industrial-grade coffee-roasting machine, he suggests we try a new café.

Instead of adopting six cats on a whim, he gently reminds me that fostering is a noble first step.

Instead of sinking our life savings into a llama farm, he hands me a stuffed llama toy and assures me it’s basically the same thing.

But his most powerful tool—the last line of defense when all else fails—is the waiting game. He has perfected the art of saying, “Let’s sleep on it,” with the patience of a man who has watched me cycle through a breathtaking number of obsessions. His reasoning is simple: if I still desperately want the thing by morning, we’ll consider it. Naturally, by the time I wake up, I have entirely forgotten my burning need for yet another houseplant and instead decided I am meant to be a professional cheese sculptor.

And yet, despite his vigilance, things still slip through. These moments inevitably lead to the morning-after confession, in which I sheepishly approach him and say something along the lines of, “So… I may have panic-bought a samurai sword at 2 AM.” He never reacts with anger—just another deep, soul-depleting exhale, so powerful it possibly shifts the atmospheric pressure in the room. Then, as always, he lets me experience the consequences of my choices. Like when I bought an entire beekeeping kit before realizing we don’t actually have a backyard.

Does he stop me from every impulse decision? No. Does he steer me toward slightly less absurd ones? Absolutely. Because love, as it turns out, is knowing that your partner will absolutely buy a ukulele at 3 AM and attempt to launch a one-person folk band—and choosing to stay anyway.