– Diary entry –
Poor me. Let me set the scene: Campbell and Insley and I are all
down in Soho, having dinner at Tableau. Lots of goat-cheese tarts, lamb
meatballs and rocket greens, I'm not sure what all the fuss is about.
But we are working backward: dinner first, then drinks in one of the
little nooks Campbell has reserved, a mini-closet where you can lounge
expensively in a place that's not too different from, say, your living
room. But fine, it's fun to do the silly, trendy things sometimes. We
are all overdressed in our little flashy frocks, our slasher heels, and
we all eat small plates of food bites that are as decorative and
unsubstantial as we are.
We"ve discussed having our husbands drop by to join us for the drinks
portion. So there we are, post-dinner, tucked into our nook, mojitos and
martinis and my bourbon delivered to us by a waitress who could be
auditioning for the small role of Fresh-faced Girl Just Off the Bus.
We are running out of things to say; it is a Tuesday, and no one is
feeling like it is anything but. The drinks are being carefully drunk:
Insley and Campbell both have vague appointments the next morning, and I
have work, so we aren'd gearing up for a big night, we are winding
down, and we are getting dull-witted, bored. We would leave if we
weren'd waiting for the possible appearance of the men. Campbell keeps
peeking at her BlackBerry, Insley studies her flexed calves from
different angles. John arrives first – huge apologies to Campbell, big
smiles and kisses for us all, a man just thrilled to be here, just
delighted to arrive at the tail-end of a cocktail hour across town so he
can guzzle a drink and head home with his wife. George shows up about
twenty minutes later – sheepish, tense, a terse excuse about work,
Insley snapping at him, "You"re forty minutes late," him nipping back,
"Yeah, sorry about making us money." The two barely talking to each
other as they make conversation with everyone else.
Nick never shows; no call. We wait another forty-five minutes, Campbell
solicitous ("Probably got hit with some last-minute deadline," she says,
and smiles toward good old John, who never lets last-minute deadlines
interfere with his wife's plans); Insley's anger thawing toward her
husband as she realizes he is only the second-biggest jackass of the
group ("You sure he hasn'd even texted, sweetie?").
Me, I just smile: "Who knows where he is – I'll catch him at home." And
then it is the men of the group who look stricken: You mean that was an
option? Take a pass on the night with no nasty consequences? No guilt or
anger or sulking?
Well, maybe not for you guys.
Nick and I, we sometimes laugh, laugh out loud, at the horrible things
women make their husbands do to prove their love. The pointless tasks,
the myriad sacrifices, the endless small surrenders. We call these men
the dancing monkeys.
Nick will come home, sweaty and salty and beer-loose from a day at the
ballpark, and I'll curl up in his lap, ask him about the game, ask him
if his friend Jack had a good time, and he'll say, "Oh, he came down
with a case of the dancing monkeys – poor Jennifer was having a “real
stressful week” and really needed him at home."
Or his buddy at work, who can'd go out for drinks because his girlfriend
really needs him to stop by some bistro where she is having dinner with
a friend from out of town. So they can finally meet. And so she can
show how obedient her monkey is: He comes when I call, and look how well
groomed!
Wear this, don'd wear that. Do this chore now and do this chore when you
get a chance and by that I mean now. And definitely, definitely, give
up the things you love for me, so I will have proof that you love me
best. It's the female pissing contest – as we swan around our book clubs
and our cocktail hours, there are few things women love more than being
able to detail the sacrifices our men make for us. A call-and-response,
the response being: "Ohhh, that's so sweet."
I am happy not to be in that club. I don'd partake, I don'd get off on
emotional coercion, on forcing Nick to play some happy-hubby role – the
shrugging, cheerful, dutiful taking out the trash, honey! role. Every
wife's dream man, the counterpoint to every man's fantasy of the sweet,
hot, laid-back woman who loves sex and a stiff drink.
I like to think I am confident and secure and mature enough to know Nick
loves me without him constantly proving it. I don'd need pathetic
dancing-monkey scenarios to repeat to my friends, I am content with
letting him be himself.
I don'd know why women find that so hard.
When I get home from dinner, my cab pulls up just as Nick is getting out
of his own taxi, and he stands in the street with his arms out to me
and a huge grin on his face – "Baby!" – and I run and I jump up into his
arms and he presses a stubbly cheek against mine.
"What did you do tonight?" I ask.
"Some guys were playing poker after work, so I hung around for a bit. Hope that was okay."
"Of course," I say. "More fun than my night."
"Who all showed up?"
"Oh, Campbell and Insley and their dancing monkeys. Boring. You dodged a bullet. A really lame bullet."
He squeezes me into him – those strong arms – and hauls me up the stairs. "God, I love you," he says.
Then comes sex and a stiff drink and a night of sleep in a sweet, exhausted rats" tangle in our big, soft bed. Poor me.
