It started as a simple enough conversation about the possibilities of remarriage after the death of a spouse, and since I am the elder and less healthy of this couple, I naturally asked my dear wife if she would consider remarriage if I should died before she did.
“Highly unlikely,” she said very quickly, which pleased me. Had she hesitated as though giving the question some thought, I would have been hurt.
“I’ll ask you the same question,” she said. “In the unlikely event of my very premature passing, who would you marry?”
Do you she the way my dear wife’s mind works? She didn’t ask if I would remarry—she asked who I would marry. I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m quick enough to avoid certain doom by answering a loaded question like that.
“Let me rephrase your question,” I began. “You meant to ask if I would remarry, not who I would marry …”
“No,” she interrupted. “I’ve noticed that you gaze quite approvingly at a few of the ladies in my office, and I have wondered which one you have chosen, should the unthinkable happen.”
She does this all the time. You ask a simple question and suddenly you’re up to your neck in impossible choices. It’s like going to the beach for a little swim in the sea and being commandeered to serve as captain of an aircraft carrier. You’re over your head before you get your feet wet, and there’s no turning back.
To illustrate, let me describe one of the earlier episodes of this asking of unanswerable questions. Many years ago, when many more of our friends smoked, we were at a party together and one of the guests—an attractive young lady who seemed to be alone—got quite ill in the stale air of the smoke-filled house. The combination of a few drinks and the stifling air overcame this woman and she opened the sliding glass door that led to the deck next to the in-ground swimming pool our host had recently installed.
I was on the deck, alone, in my own attempt to escape the tedium of the small talk, and the smoke (I’d quit smoking the previous week and was having a bit of trouble resisting the temptation of two dozen smokers luring me back to the dark side).
The woman leaned against the railing around the pool, but it had not been nailed into place very well; it gave way and she toppled into the water. My instinct was to attempt to rescue the flailing young lady, so I jumped into the water fully dressed and grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up and out of the water just as the entire cast of characters from the party, hearing two quick splashes, rushed to the deck.
Embarrassed and soaking wet, the woman whispered a quiet ‘thank you’ in my ear, but to my dear wife, it appeared as if she was nibbling on my ear.
“Thomas,” she said coldly, “Rebecka was an alternate on the Olympic swimming team two years ago. Don’t tell me you thought you were rescuing a world-class swimmer—so what were you thinking?” How does one answer a question like that?
Back in the present, I knew this wasn’t going to end pleasantly for me, so I stalled for time by playing deaf and stupid. “I don’t know if I understand your question, my dear. Did I hear you correctly—are you asking which of the girls in your office I would marry if you died?”
“You heard me correctly and you know what I’m talking about,” she said in a huffy voice. “It’s annoying when you stall for time by playing deaf and stupid. You are neither. Your problem is that you refuse to confront your wandering eye. Were you more adept at concealing your fantasy voyages of the mind, we wouldn’t have these silly little maneuvers.”
Giving in and hoping to move on, I said, “All right, if you must know, I think I’d marry Jessica—if you passed on and left me a lonely widower.
“Jessica? That blonde in accounting?” My wife actually looked stunned. Jessica rivaled my wife in her devotion to cats, a fixation I most certainly do not share. Jessie had five at last count, and she was always on the look-out for more.
I smiled the smile of a victorious man—an unwise thing to do when dealing with someone smarter and quicker and meaner that yourself.
Recovering her wits almost instantly, my dear wife asked, “You do know that Jessica is in therapy?”
I didn’t know and said so. “That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve been in therapy before and it can be a most cleansing and satisfying thing.”
“You went to therapy to quit smoking,” said my wife. “Jessie is in count-ordered therapy because she hit a man who kicked a cat.”
“She’s such a little thing, my dear,” I said. “Even her hardest punch couldn’t break a …”
“Jessie hit him with her car,” stated my wife slowly, with much relish. “Twice.”
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