I Tried Living Like I Was in the 17th Century for a Week...

I. THE EXPERIMENT BEGINS (AGAINST MY WIFE’S WILL)

It all started because I read one article... ONE... about “rewilding your modern life.”

The advice was simple:

• reduce dependence on technology
• connect with your ancestors
• churn things
• grow a beard that intimidates your neighbors

As a man with no impulse control and a history of taking trends too far, I decided to go bigger. What if I lived like I was in the 17th century for an entire week?

• No electronics.
• No modern language.
• No deodorant.
• No shame.

My wife, hearing this idea, paused deeply… like the doctor had just given her a difficult prognosis. She stared at me and said: “Whatever you’re planning… don’t.”

But the spirit of adventure, or stupidity, had already possessed me...

II. DAY ONE: RENOUNCING MODERN SPEECH

The transformation began immediately. I entered the kitchen at 7:13 AM, wearing a bathrobe I insisted was a “cloak,” and proclaimed:

“Good morrow, m’lady! Pray tell, hast thou brewed the morning elixir?”

She blinked and then sighed. She Googled divorce costs in front of me, but I pressed on.

Throughout the morning, I replaced every normal phrase with something 17th-century:

1. “Pass the butter” became: “Bestow upon me the churned bounty.”
2. “Where are my socks?” became: “Wherefore hath mine foot garments vanished?”
3. “I’m running to Target” became: “I journey yonder to the merchant’s hall to procure wares.”

By noon, my wife texted me from the next room: “Stop...”

III. DAY TWO: THE GREAT CHAMBER POT INCIDENT

In the 1600s, they didn’t have indoor plumbing. This seemed like a problem. So I bought a decorative tin bucket and announced:

“Behold! The Royal Chamber Pot!”

My wife said seven words every man fears: “If you use that thing, I’m leaving.” I assured her it was “strictly ceremonial,” then used it once and immediately regretted every decision leading to this moment. Let us never speak of it again.

IV. DAY THREE: THE BUTTER CHURN

(Or: Why My Forearms Still Hurt)

No 17th-century reenactment is complete without churning butter. I watched three YouTube tutorials (at reduced brightness because candles ruin laptops) and set to work. Two hours in, I had: 0% butter and 100% self-doubt. Along with 1 furious wife, dealing with rhythmic noises echoing through the house like a haunted conga line. She entered the kitchen, glared at me, and asked:

“Are you… CHURNING at 11 PM?”

I answered:

“Aye, m’lady. The dairy doth resist my hand.”

She walked away so slowly and silently, I feared she was ascending to a higher plane of existence to escape me. Or, locking herself in the bathroom with the fresh container of Calgon I "procured".

V. DAY FOUR: ATTEMPTING 17TH-CENTURY COURTSHIP

I decided to woo my wife using historically accurate romance. This did not go well. I approached her gently and offered a single wilted dandelion I found in the yard, saying: “Fair maiden, dost thou desire a bloom most humble?”

She responded: “Why are you like this? What is wrong with your brain?”

Later, I attempted a traditional greeting by bowing deeply. Too deeply. I lost balance and crashed into the ottoman, knocking over a lamp, a plant, and some of her will to live. She didn’t even react. Just sipped her coffee while looking at me like I was a raccoon that had learned to walk upright. I was both intrigued and frightened at this reaction...

VI. DAY FIVE: THE RENAISSANCE FESTIVAL WARDROBE TAKES OVER

I rediscovered the outfit I bought at a Renaissance Faire 12 years ago, but was too embarrassed to wear. Not anymore, for now was the moment to don such attire!

I put on:

• the tunic
• the belt
• the boots
• the cape

The leather pouch I insisted was for “herbs” and yes… the wooden practice sword. When my wife saw me, she froze. It was the exact expression someone makes when a deer jumps in front of their car.

She whispered: “You need to stop. People can SEE you.”

I replied: “Nay, m’lady… the streets must behold mine gallantry.”

Then I dramatically swirled my cape and nearly knocked over a candelabra.

She muttered: “I can’t live like this...” (I have her right where I want her)

VII. DAY SIX: I BRING BACK OLD-TIMEY TRADES

(Carpentry, Blacksmithing, and Other Things I am Horrible At)

The 17th century was full of useful skills I clearly do not possess. Carpentry? I built something intended to be a small stool. It became a weapon. Garden work? I planted three tomato seeds and immediately threw out my back. Smithing? I banged a metal spoon against a pan and shouted, “THE IRON YIELDS!”. My wife closed the blinds so the neighbors wouldn’t see me and left for Trader Joes for 3 hours.

VIII. NIGHT SIX: THE STRAW BED EXPERIMENT

(AKA: My Wife Almost Left Me For Good)

Beds in the 1600s were made of straw. So I filled our mattress cover with hay from a local farm supply store. The results were a tad... 'pokey'... (catastrophic)

The bed:

• rustled
• jabbed
• smelled like livestock
• triggered her allergies
• and somehow released a cricket

My wife sat up violently at 1:12 AM and shouted: “WHY IN THE HELL IS MY BED MAKING NOISES!??” I calmly explained it was part of my immersion experience. She replied: “I’m giving you TWO DAYS to cut this crap out, or I will immerse you in a lake!” Which, historically speaking, is the fastest a monarchy has ever fallen.

IX. DAY SEVEN: THE M’LADY CRISIS REACHES PEAK LEVELS

By this point, “m’lady” had become second nature. And so had my wife, smacking the back of my head every time I uttered it. I said it without thinking... and reminded when my head jolted forward. Oops...

Examples from a single morning:

• “M’lady, passeth me the remote.”
• “M’lady, behold! The cat hath vomited.”
• “M’lady, I beseech thee: where is mine cloak?”

My wife stared at me with deep, ancient exhaustion and said:

“I swear to God… if you call me ‘m’lady’ ONE more time…”

I opened my mouth; just to breathe and she cut me off:

“NO... Don’t... Even, inhale in a medieval way.” Yikes... She really wasn't getting the point.

X. THE FINAL STRAW (LITERALLY): THE OUTDOOR BATHING EXPERIMENT

I decided to bathe “like a true 17th-century man,” which apparently means freezing to death in a wooden tub. I set it up in the backyard. I lit candles. I poured water and started to disrobe.

What I did not account for was the neighbor’s Ring cameras. Coupled with the speed with which water cools. My own tragic lack of lower body warmth was very evident, as noted by my wife's laughter. My wife walked outside at the exact moment I was shouting: “THE CHILL BITES MY VERY SOUL!”.

After her laughing had subsided, she walked in the house and latched the slider door. I had to traverse the front yard and go in through the garage. Touché my dearest... well played.

XI. WHAT I LEARNED (A SERIOUS MOMENT… KIND OF)

Living like it’s the 17th century teaches you many things. People were built DIFFERENT back then. No microwaves? No thanks. Hygiene was optional in ways that should never be revisited or spoken about again. (eewww)

Romance was dramatic, impractical and involved way too many ways to kiss, so as not to smell the other person's breath. (cue dry heaving)

And most importantly... No marriage on Earth can survive a man calling his wife “m’lady” 47 times a day.

XII. THE END OF THE EXPERIMENT (AND THE RETURN TO MODERN SANITY)

On the final morning, I approached my wife quietly. I knelt. I prepared to declare my final 17th-century proclamation and fall on my sword if necessary. She raised a finger sharply, not unlike a queen commanding silence... “Don’t,” she said. “Do NOT ‘m’lady’ me.” I smiled softly.

And in my most modern, 21st-century voice, I said:

“Good morning my sweet. Sorry...”

After a long week of putting up with my Shrewsbury Shenanigans, she smirked and finally hugged me. Then whispered: “Thank God.”

THE MORAL OF THE STORY

Living like you’re in the 17th century for a week will:

1. ruin your back
2. destroy your marriage
3. confuse your cat
4. terrify your neighbors
5. get you flagged by FedEx
6. and turn “m’lady” into a weapon of emotional destruction

But it will also teach you something deeply important. The past belongs in museums... Not in your relationship.