My wife and I are on to each other. I know it. She knows it. We’re scamming each other, but not in a way that we can catch each other at what we’re doing. We both have such mastery of our respective scams, and such great excuses for our behavior that we can’t definitively call each other out. There’s just a fraction of doubt, a fraction of belief that the other person might actually be acting honestly.
Here’s how it works: I’m at home leaning back in my armchair, and a football, baseball, sport of any kind game is on TV. My legs are up, not partway mind you, all the way up; not a toe touches the floor. A refreshing beverage, something with a frothy head or the perky pop of carbonation, drips condensation onto a snowman coaster, an island of color on our tan end table.
Suddenly, I hear the dull rumble of an engine and my wife pulls into the driveway with a trunk full of groceries. If she catches me in the living room, she’ll want me to help. What to do?
Some men would freeze under these circumstances, unsure how to proceed, dreading the multiple trips to and from the SUV, but without a plan in place to cope with it. Not me. I lower the leg-rest and, with a nimble twist Houdini would envy, pop up and steer myself towards the bathroom in the hall behind me. Half a magazine article later, I’m flushed and done, and exit the throne room to find all groceries safely inside. “Abra cadabra.” The disappearing husband routine has worked again.
Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Don’t be so quick to judge. The tide rolls in and the tide rolls out. How about this one? My wife typically trots up to bed earlier than I do. Depending on what I have left on my late night schedule (refer to my blog Night Time at the Glover House for a round-up of these activities), I could be anywhere from fifteen minutes to a few hours behind her. When I finish, I take my rounds to make sure I’ve locked the doors and pulled down the shades. I look upstairs. I can see the light in our room seeping out the edges of the door. She’s still reading, I think, comforted by the notion that I’ll have time to crack my novel as well.
I turn on the security alarm, and a robotic female voice announces, “Alarm is set.” A ticking countdown begins. I have sixty seconds before the alarm activates. I bound up the stairs, my heart pounding with joy at the thought of reading in bed before I conk out.
Imagine my disappointment when I arrive at the door of our room and the lights are magically out. I open the door and it’s pitch-black inside. Lying in bed, quilt pulled over her, my wife dozes. Or does she? In the span of ten seconds, she’s gone from sitting upright in bed, three pillows behind her, bedside light on, a stack of magazines next to her, to Lana Van Winkle. “Presto change-o.” The transformation astounds me. Is that believable? Does she think she’s kidding me?
Lately, I’ve started to set the alarm earlier, to see if I can throw her off. The other night, I swung open the bedroom door to catch her in the midst of dropping her reading pile onto the floor. You can’t imagine the look of disappointment on her face. It was as if I’d told her Nutella was going out of business. It reminded me of the day I told my daughter they uninvented ice cream. (No, I wouldn’t do that, would I?)
Despite my minor success, I do have some concerns that she might retaliate. What if she parks down the street one afternoon instead of the driveway, sneaks up the path to our front door, then rushes inside to demand my services as grocery carthorse? Point counterpoint. This game is far from over.
What about you and your mate? Are you on to each other?
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