She is the Simon to my Garfunkel
My wife makes more money than I do. No, really. She does. My wife, Christine, makes more money than I do now. At work she got a huge promotion. I am afraid I don’t know the meaning of the word. As a result she makes more money than I do. Not just a little more money, a lot more money.
I suppose you think these revelations have shattered my masculine sensibilities. Or that these financial developments have further disintegrated my chauvinistic tendencies, if not my quote/unquote “manhood.”
To which I reply: You must not know me very well.
This has caused me no mental duress in any way whatsoever. I can still beat Christine in arm wrestling. I can still bench press four times my body weight.
When I put a new shirt on the sleeves still rip a little when I flex. I will still be the last man standing in any routine bar brawl I find myself a participant in.
Some men with more grandiose machismo might have their testosterone sorely deflated over such a significant sway in spousal income. Not I. I refuse to take part in that same tired cliche. What little I have left of my supposed masculinity will not be compromised because one paycheck is larger than the other.
All I know is this. I just finished eating a name-brand pizza. Normally I eat generic pizza with crust the same consistency and taste as the cardboard plate it came on. But not this pizza I just ate. It had cheese and pepperoni on it that was actually made of cheese and pepperoni (instead of viscera swept off the slaughterhouse floor).
And I washed this delicious pizza down with a can of Mountain Dew. Mountain Dew! It was actually printed right on the can and everything in big, bold letters, Mountain Dew! It wasn’t some obvious Mountain Dew knock-off product with a similar but different name. It wasn’t called Hillbilly Holler, Kountry Mist, Moon Mist, Mountain Drops, Mountain Lightning, Mountain Mellow, Mountain Splash, Rocky Mist, Citrus Drop or Heee Haw. I am still in disbelief.
I just don’t see a reason to get my panties in a twist over this. I have no reason to cry into my bowl of Brand X Whole Wheat Flakes, because now I am eating Wheaties.
The fact is I am happy for Christine. It’s a special kind of happiness, too. It’s the kind of happiness a person feels when someone else’s success and good fortune can be leeched off of. Then again, leech is a terrible word to use. I prefer the word parasite.
OK, so maybe Christine’s bank roll has caused a little harm to my fragile psyche. I mean, c’mon. I have a college degree. She has a high school diploma. I write for a living. She makes food for people. But I digress, mostly because the couch is extremely uncomfortable to sleep on.
People say money isn’t that important. People say a lot of dumb things. Things like, money doesn’t make the world go round. Duh, angular momentum, inertia and gravity make the world go round. Everybody already knows that, dummy.
Money isn’t just one of the most important things in life; it is the most important thing in life. Don’t blame me, I didn’t write the rules. Until such a time that hopes and dreams can pay my bills, clothe my body and put food in my stomach then we are all out of luck.
Christine is the Simon to my Garfunkel, the Han Solo to my Chewbacca, the Jordan to my Pippen, the Dr. Bunsen to my Beaker, the Cheech to my Chong, the — well you get the picture.
But you know what? That’s fine. I should stop fooling myself. I play a pretty mean second fiddle. Besides, she deserves it much, much more than I do.
And if you don’t believe me I would be more than willing to put what little money I have where my mouth is.