The library is a favorite place for me and my wife to visit. Both constant readers, writers, newspaper owners, editors, and with me a literary publicist and she a copyeditor for a publishing company, one might expect as much. And I’m also a firm believer that you can always learn new things at the library … like, fellas, maybe your wife is more “man” than you are.
Before I go further, I need to throw in a disclaimer about my wife. She doesn’t have a tomboy bone in her body. Not that there’s anything wrong with tomboys. My sister was a tomboy. My wife is, in fact, extremely womanly, naturally beautiful, and small, weighing in at only 96 lbs soaking wet and standing only 5’4” tall, which makes the following all the more embarrassing for me.
After we finished perusing the stacks at the library and headed to the check-out desk, I noticed my wife carried a large pile of books and movies that all pertained to the CIA. This interest of hers led me to a few comparisons that added up to one startling realization: my wife might be more man than me. Granted, it’s not like my wife was checking out war media or The Deer Hunter, but I would imagine interest in espionage would be more a “guy thing,” one that hardly appeals to me unless guns and explosives are involved, which leads me to my second comparison. I’ve never shot a gun and my wife has. And even if I had, based on my skills with a BB gun, I wouldn’t have been able to hit the broad side of a barn; whereas my wife, well, think Annie Oakley.
Moving on.
My wife can drive stick, I can’t.
My wife can beat me in a shouting match every time.
At the top of her favorite movies is There Will Be Blood and The Thomas Crown Affair. At the top of mine? Fried Green Tomatoes (although One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a very close second, so there).
I don’t like alcohol and my wife is partial to an occasional drink.
I have soft—fine, we’ll say it for what it is—effeminate handwriting. My wife’s is harsh and practically illegible.
Then perhaps there is one of the most glaring instances of my wife’s manliness surpassing mine.
Several years ago, my wife asked me to tackle a stain on the kitchen counter. I started first with soap and a sponge (well, I started first with a sigh, but that wasn’t going work … with my wife or the stain) and ended up throwing the whole cleaning cabinet at it to no avail but sore arms. I reported the situation to my wife, “Honey, not comin’ out. Guess we’re going to have to live with it.”
An hour later, I went into our kitchen as my wife was taking offer her yellow cleaning gloves and noticed she had removed the stain.
“I tried everything we had on that stain,” I said. “What did you use to get it out?”
I thought something little known, dark and mysterious and corrosive—highly classified cleaning methods only your grandmother would know.
Bluntly, my wife said, “Elbow grease.”
But knowing how hard I worked on the stain and seeing the blow my ego took, my wife added, “But I’m sure you loosened it for me.”
Afterword:
And in one final example that may illustrate the more common predicament men often find themselves in—forgetfulness—I (Chris’ wife) have yet another example. As I proofed the editorial my husband wrote, wry grin on my face, I came to what is referred to as “the most glaring instance,” read along much as you have, fixing style here and there, finished reading, and thought: “Did that happen? I don’t remember that happening… Boy, too bad he remembers this, ‘cause the counter is pretty dirty again, and I certainly don’t want to have to scrub it…”
