Why Do You Do The Things You Do?
Many, many ladies of my acquaintance have been known to bemoan the fact that they just don’t understand their husbands. And of course we’ve all read the magazine stories about women whose husband of twenty-two and two-thirds years ran off one day with some painted-up minx from the office because, “you see, she understands me.” Fortunately, I have no fears from that quarter. Not that I understand my Dear Husband, because I don’t. But I am relieved to note that everyone else is just as puzzled as I am.
A few of the benighted souls who have tried to increase their knowledge upon the matter of my Dear Husband have come to me for advice, asking me: “What makes C__ so…so…well, you know.” And indeed I do know. What they’re talking about, that is. I don’t know what makes him that way.
And friends of my acquaintance who have never had the good fortune to meet my Dear Husband have asked me time and again: “But what is he like, Katherine?” I hate to admit that I’m stumped by these questions. How can you explain a man whose first speech to our church speech club was ‘C__ R__, the Man Even I Don’t Understand’?
But I thought that perhaps I could use this forum and address some of the questions about my Dear Husband by revealing some of the foibles of his nature. You see, the thing about my Dear Husband is that he leaves an impression upon the people he meets. Well, maybe that isn’t helpful; after all, the same can be said of what a lawn chair does to the back of your leg when you sit on it (the lawn chair, I mean).
Perhaps what I mean is that he leaves a different impression upon each person that he meets. And that is, perhaps why he is so confusing to some (all right, all). For example, my Dear Husband is a man who is perceived as being sensible and wise enough to have been elected chairman of our local church council twice. But he is the same man who, a little over a year ago, donned a striped shirt, slung a towel around his neck, and serenaded a rubber ducky in a dead-on impersonation of Ernie from Sesame Street. You see what I mean?
He is the most honest man I have ever met, to the point of occasionally being a bit too blunt when asked his opinion. He doesn’t sugarcoat or varnish things (unless he’s cooking or doing carpentry, of course). And yet, several years ago I stumbled upon him (well, discovered him, not actually tripped over him) filching some turkey ham from our refrigerator. I had bought this turkey ham for a certain specific purpose, and this purpose was not for snacking on, and he knew it. When I demanded of him, “Are you eating my turkey ham?” He turned, and with the offending food still in his mouth, giving his face contours that were reminiscent of a chipmunk, he raised his eyebrows and, with a look of angelic innocence, mumbled, “Mmm-mm-m? Hrm-hrm-hm-mm?” which last I translated to be “Turkey ham? What turkey ham?”
He has been noted to come across as aloof to some, even intimidating, and certainly straight-laced; yet on one memorable occasion, he stood up in front a small group of our friends and did an impromptu hula dance, an event that has been commemorated by a dear friend of mine who purchased a hula man dash ornament for my car. I have even had to warn my Dear Husband not to juggle with the oranges in my fruit bowl, because he kept dropping them and giving them bruised spots.
And when it comes to romance…well! My Dear Husband was passionate enough to drive the entire distance from Indiana to Wyoming and back twice during our courtship. Imagine the thrill, then, in my heart that night when I was curled up in front of a warm wood stove, listening to his dear voice from the other end of a telephone wire. He paused, and spoke so softly that I could hardly hear him. “There’s something you should know,” he murmured.
I felt the flush mount to my cheeks. What declaration of love could prompt such a tone, or what admission of some past guilt that I would be called upon to forgive? I waited eagerly to hear whispers of love or guilt. I heard neither. What I heard, faintly, huskily, through the receiver was “There’s a deflated basketball in my closet.” Dear readers, I was stunned. It took me quite two minutes to get my breath back.
And that doesn’t even begin to paint the portrait of my Dear Husband, a man who seldom speaks in public meetings, and who always weighs his statements carefully; but who, admittedly and unashamedly plays with his friends a game called “Change the Subject”, whose object is to take some poor victim’s conversation as far afield as possible while still providing a segue from one topic to another.
Hmmm….I review this and see that I haven’t really helped you in any way to understand my Dear Husband. Well, to abuse a line from a famous musical, how do you solve a problem like C___?