My husband and his pals have a base idea of what a typical wife is. Arms akimbo, the typical wife barges through the informal “social” gatherings of inebriated men, lets fly strings of verbal barbs and drags her man by the ear each time to get him home. The rest of the ruffians who witness such instances of utter and absolute humiliation, duck in various directions to protect their egos from the sting of the typical wife’s wrath.
I don’t fit the description. That’s why my husband’s friends love me too. The females in the typical category warn me of my folly. They say men need to be flogged in public so they don’t forget who their real bosses are. I don’t throw sharp words, breakable objects or facial contortions at my husband in public or in private because I’m too lazy. With two kids I don’t want to have to be the mother of a fully grown person.
The other night I found my husband tinkering with his phone in the dead of the night. Having settled on an inexplicably difficult mood (which I’d like to blame on hormones, Google, the president, Justin Beiber, the man on the moon or anyone/anything else other than myself) I asked him who the hell he was texting in the dark.
His jaw fell and the silence was long and pronounced. “Are you my wife? So what’s next? Are you gonna attend all my social events? Are you gonna stand with your fists up in front of my buddies?”
“When those things happen, my dear, you’d better worry that your real wife got kidnapped by aliens.”
Really, I just don’t know what came over me.