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Although I’m a bit of a snoop when it comes to my husband, I’ve yet to find any clues that he’s up to no good. The deepest recesses of his closet hold only lint balls. The messages on his cell phone are mundane. The credit card statement contains no mysterious charges (besides the revelation that Hubs eats far more barbeque for lunch than he admits).
I’m not alone in my amateur sleuthing. Hubs likes to show up in the middle of the day sometimes, just to “see what I’m up to.” And one time when I took the kids to visit my parents, I returned home to discover that he’d gone through my dresser drawers, searching for God-knows-what. Although I secretly find this kind of thing flattering, I’ve assured Hubs that I don’t ever want a boyfriend. But the truth is, I would love to have an admirer.
My Admirer would be quite handsome, but he’d also have a look-but-don’t-touch-ever-not-even-when-you’re-a-little-drunk-and-there’s-no-one-around kind of sensibility. “I love that you love your husband,” he’d say, sadly and simply. “All I want is to worship you from afar.” And who am I to argue with that?
Instead, I’d reluctantly accept the deliveries of flowers (Casablanca lilies), boxes of candy (Godiva) and books of poems (Neruda), all with notes that say things like, When I saw you in carpool this morning with the sun in your hair, I realized I had never seen anyone or anything more beautiful. Or, You fold a fitted sheet with a grace and perfection that others can only dream of. Thank you for being you. Or even, You are the hottest soccer mom this side of the Mississippi. Ah-OOO-gah! I’m not particular. It’s the thought that counts.
My husband might not like all the attention My Admirer would give me, but he’d have to tolerate it because he has plenty of fans of his own. As a television reporter, people are constantly coming up to him and telling him how great he is. He loves to tell me these stories, which I counter with something like, “Oh, the same thing happened to me today. I was at the supermarket and this total stranger walked up and said, ‘I just love the way you save at least 25 percent on your grocery bill every time you shop!’ ” Hubs generally snorts derisively while I seethe. But My Admirer would put a stop to this kind of behavior.
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“Hubs,” he’d say, taking my husband’s hand and shaking it heartily, “beating the supermarket at its own game is tough work. I hope you know you’re a very lucky man.” Hubs would look slightly uneasy as he noted the firm handshake and soulful eyes of My Admirer. That night, Hubs would turn up with a large bouquet of his own and an offer of dinner and dancing. Or dinner and drinking, which is more our style.
“Admirer,” I’d say as he called me on the phone for the fifth time in a week, just to hear the charming lilt of my voice, “I really can’t accept your gifts anymore. You’ve been simply wonderful, but between you and me, I think Hubs is getting a little jealous.”
“Lindsay,” he’d whisper with just the right blend of regret and compassion, “I will cease my attentions, if that’s what it takes to make your life easier. But I have devoted my life to adoring you and the evidence will be impossible to ignore.” I’d sigh deeply as I hung up the phone for a final time.
After weeks of not hearing from My Admirer, my husband would silently bring me a copy of the newspaper. “Local Artist Receives International Recognition for Lindsay Series,” the front cover would read. Pictured beside an oil painting—entitled Lindsay at a Yard Sale With the Sun in Her Hair—would be My Admirer, his searing, questioning eyes burning through the newsprint.
A short time later, I’d be named Parents magazine’s Mother of the Year, based on an anonymous submission. Hubs would try to pretend he’d mailed in the entry, but the editor’s admission that my “ability to artfully manage the lives of my husband and three children while radiating inner calm and stunning the locals with my otherworldly beauty” earned me the honor would make it obvious who was really responsible for the prize photo session and free trip to New York.
By the end of that year, Lindsay (Joy of My Life) would top the Adult Contemporary music chart.
My resulting fame would leave Nicole and Keith forlorn and forgotten at Bread & Company as the Nashville paparazzi rushed to camp outside my house. In the tabloids, readers would note the winsomeness in my frown as I rushed the kids from our front door to our SUV, as well as the unexpected kickiness of my Target skirt paired with (deeply discounted, but still!) Prada mules. Soon, I’d have admirers showing up at my door from all parts of the globe.
I’m surprised more women aren’t taking up admirers, really. They’re way better than affairs, because who really wants to pay for a few rounds of furtive bonking with a lifetime of postcoital guilt? An admirer keeps you happy and your husband on his toes.
Of course, if my husband ever gets himself an admirer, well, I’ll bitch-slap her ass all the way to Murfreesboro.
Read more Suburban Turmoil at www.suburbanturmoil.blogspot.com or on the Scene’s blog at www.pithinthewind.com.