The Mister is currently out to dinner with a former not-girlfriend-but-mutual-crush who has just published her third novel to much acclaim. I am sitting on the couch blogging in my slippers and trying to recover from the gut-wrenching Chinese food I ate for dinner. Did I mention that she’s pretty?
But I am not jealous. I am not the jealous type. Well, that’s not true. I am jealous that she has found the discipline and stamina to write three books. I’m jealous that she knows Jonathan Franzen (although I imagine he’s something of a pill), but I am not jealous that my husband is out to dinner with her.
I’m not worried.
I am, after all, the same woman who lets her husband go on tropical vacations with women who are not me. Actually that one gave me pause. Not because I was worried, but because I thought it looked weird, because so many other people thought I was crazy. But I got over it.
I cannot imagine how awful it would be to be in a realationship where you were worried about such things. I mean, this whole long-term family life thing is hard enough without having to worry that your partner is going to go make-out with someone else. And by make-out I mean screw. And by screw I mean betray.
It’s not naiveté; I understand completely that anything can happen and that no one is ever 100%free from the possibility. I just really don’t worry about it. Maybe I possess supreme confidence. But really it’s just that The Mister has no moves. Zero. The thought of him seducing someone in a hotel bar, for example, makes me gleeful. He’s awesome in about 25,000 ways, but he is not a player. He’s still the eager 13-year old, grateful you let him put his hand in your bra.
When I was growing up my mom always said I should find a “whole wheat bread man.” This was as opposed to one of those flashy pastry men, all done up with sprinkles and whipped cream. Obviously.
And even though I tried never to do what my mom suggested, I married a whole wheat bread man*. Delicious, substantial, unflashy whole wheat.
Which means that I can be stuck in the house with the raging poops while my husband hangs out with a pretty novelist he once pined for and feel pretty ok about it. You know, like 90% Ok. Or 75%.
*A note for the gluten intolerant: may I suggest the brown rice man. He is also lovable and trustworthy but with less bloating.