When Sheri is here I wear cardigans and make lists of errands and chores and then do them. At night, I choose piano jazz for our dinner sound track. Some evenings I pour wine, and we talk about our days as grown-ups do. Or we read or finish work from the office. Sometimes we go out. The other night, we treated ourselves to the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. I wore a sport coat and felt every bit of age forty-five.
But now, with Sheri gone, I’m tempted to order up last summer’s teen-boy spectacle, Star Trek, on my cable TV. I’ve eaten chocolate ice cream from the container. I’ve wrassled the dogs on the living room rug until we barked at each other. I haven’t made the bed; if I did I’d have to move the basketball. If the neighbors are lucky, I’m shaking the windows with Pearl Jam. If they’re unlucky, it’s Rush.
I know other guys who morph into adolescents when their wives leave town. There’s one fellow who could be a 24-7 Guitar Hero if his wife skedaddled for a week. Another drinks more beer. Texas Hold 'em anyone?
My conclusion: Despite what birth certificates suggest, all husbands are younger men. All wives are older women.