I'm In For It, Pt. 2

Here's an excerpt from one of my earlier Circle columns that created a little buzz. I thought I'd share worldwide:

Let me tell you of a growing fear I’ve had lately. Gentlemen, you’ll relate to this because I bet you have felt it in the air, too. I need someone to watch my back, because any day now it’s coming: my wife is going to smash me over the head with a frying pan.

At the beginning of every episode of Six Feet Under, someone suffers an unusual or unexpected demise. One show, some big dude was at his kitchen table prattling on about nothing, and his wife calmly walked over and clobbered him with an iron skillet. Shut him right up, too. Well, when my wife saw that, she laughed and laughed. Oh, it was so funny! But I didn’t laugh quite so hard. Deep inside, my reaction was more like, “Uh, oh.”

So now we have (she has?) this running joke. Whenever I go off about something ad nauseum, she says she is going to get a pan. Thing is, those instances are about the same, old, tired subjects. I have been fussing about money for years, and often I think I have a point, but we haven’t gone broke yet. So when I bring it up, I know I’m asking for a saucepan to the head.

What I’m more worried about are the not-so-obvious moments: have I worn this old t-shirt one too many times? Is this a bad time to read the newspaper? Do I need to grate more cheese? Have I once again exercised my knack for saying just the wrong thing?

Occasionally I get a sense that my presence in the room is unwelcome and it’s best to simply step out. Often, I’m overtly told so. I don’t mind that, but knowing that she’s one good skull whack away from a permanent solution, well, that just makes me uneasy.

I buy myself small chunks of time by consistently going to work, dealing with the trash, taking care of the yard, reaching for things up high. If I really want to earn a couple weeks, I’ll escort our son out of the house for a few hours.

And I’m not the only one in danger. You know why? Wives get on the phone with other wives. Issues are magnified and nefarious plans are hatched. Men don’t generally do this. We get together and talk about work, weather, sports, what the kids are doing, but we never say, “Can you believe what a buffoon my wife is? Have I told you about the dim witted thing she has done? What, my friend, do you think I should do about this?”

In doing my “research” for this piece, I casually asked a friend if she ever had thoughts of clubbing her husband on the back of his head. Her reaction: “Oh, my God! Do you think I could get away with it?”

That may be anecdotal evidence, but how many sociological studies would it take to be more convincing? Husbands, you are doomed. And here’s the extra kick in the groin: generally, people can’t get clean away with a homicide, premeditated or not. They have all that DNA evidence and forensic science nowadays. So the alternative is to leave us in a state of suspended trepidation: frying pan, or maybe something else? What other non-lethal penance will we suffer as a result of our ill defined shortcomings?

But like they say, if life had no element of risk, it wouldn’t be much fun, so I’ll take my chances. I hope I haven’t left the impression that my wife is evil, because really she’s quite easy going. Truth is, most of the time, the cookware serves us well simply by sautéing a number of delicious dishes. Still, it may help ensure my longevity if we went out to eat more often. At least in most restaurants, the pots are out of reach.