Tuesday, March 24, 2020
An angler at home with their spouse
Linda and I are approaching a 7th day of isolated marital bliss. I have to tell you, in all that time scarcely a harsh word has come between us. Though we are legendary lovebirds, in the pre-viral world, gentle Linda was known to voice an occasional opinion about ways Bill could improve himself . You know. Make a good spouse even better. You know. Nag.
While I am known for a willingness to overlook spousal shortcomings, Linda has kinda needed work on that aspect of an otherwise flawless personality, if you catch my drift. These days, though? As I said, there has been scarcely an intemperate word in an entire week of alone time.
“Why is this?” you may ask. Well, I have a theory, along with a way of evaluating that theory, one at least as valid as the way our nation’s leaders want to test scary experimental drugs.
Here it is:
I have a long-held but mostly unspoken theory that the bulk of all marital disagreements in this world stem from a single source: backseat driving.
In the Prater Household, in 51-plus years, scarcely a day has gone by without Linda giving into an irresistible, passenger seat temptation to describe a better way for me to slow down, to watch out for that driver on the left, or find the quickest route to the damned grocery store. In the past week, though, our one lone, brief trip to that grocery store yielded only a single startled gasp from the passenger seat. And back in the home, alone again? Only continued good cheer, camaraderie, and occasional spontaneous sex, the kind that in earlier days might have yielded a third Prater daughter. Coincidence? I think not.
As I said above, we have a unique opportunity to verify this theory: other Loveland Fishing Club spouses can simply, bravely, describe their own backseat driver-driven experiences. And eventually, at Friday morning breakfast at Perkins, we can again share those insights.
Be cautious, though, guys. As I say, this is only speculation on my part, like our President’s hunch that everything will be back to normal by Thursday. Like White House theories on pandemic panaceas, this theory could be outright wrong - or mutating over time. Ominously, just this morning, I heard sweet Linda exclaim: “For God’s Sakes! It’s been seven days now! Change your underwear!”
That sounds dangerously close to harsh words.
More later. Prater.