Editor's note: This column first appeared in August 1995 and will be included in a collection of Robert Byrne columns titled "Behold My Shorts." Watch for it in early November.
Cindy is the best wife I've had in a long time. For years, she has labored toward the impossible dream of keeping me presentable at all times. I can only say, "Lots of luck with that, honey!"
I know she's lost the thread of a conversation when her gaze leaves my eyes and begins to roam around my face. She's looking for flaws: ink smudges from my fingers, incipient zits, and particles of food that haven't yet been consumed by bacteria. The offending blemishes can sometimes be corrected by a flick of her fingernail or a swipe of a tissue; occasionally a tool is required. Last week she pointed toward the bathroom and announced that a nose hair had to be removed. "It's not a nose hair," I protested without effect, "it's an antenna."
My reading glasses are a special problem because they are usually not clean enough to suit her or any random optometrist on the street. I wear them around my neck on a cord, and at mealtimes I let them hang down on my chest where the lenses act as trays and catch food that doesn't quite make it to my mouth. When I put my glasses on later, the world looks like a Farmers Market. The sight is so appalling to Cindy that the blood drains from her face and I have to help her into a chair. Once when I heard her approaching, I whipped out my handkerchief and rubbed my glasses vigorously. When I put them on, the view was blurred by a film of what often is found on handkerchiefs.
She even wants me to keep my sunglasses clean, which is ridiculous. The whole idea of sunglasses is to restrict the amount of light that gets through.
She has uncanny powers of observation. In a room crowded with strangers, she can distinguish between married men and bachelors because half-way up the trousers of the bachelors is a horizontal hangar crease. She can see stains on shirts and ties that are detectable only by forensic scientists. Her nose is small but powerful: Blindfolded, she can identify her female friends by their perfume. My own nose is a local landmark, yet I can't tell the difference between cologne and insecticide.
My wife and I once toured an elaborate day spa in East Dubuque, Ill., that had just opened. One feature we both found appealing was a private room with two pedicure stations; the black leather upholstered chairs looked luxurious. In a moment of madness, I made a reservation for a his-and-her pedicure. My wife was so stunned that, once again, I had to help her sit down until she recovered her composure. It was the most romantic gesture I had made since our 10th wedding anniversary when I gave her a Black & Decker power screwdriver.
Because I had never had a pedicure before, my feet were covered with calluses and horny scales. I thought the two operators would take one look and shout "We quit!" or run to the manager and demand raises. But they gritted their teeth and worked on our pedal extremities with professionalism and good spirits.
Are you running out of gift ideas for your spouse or loved one? You'll score a lot of points with his and her massages or pedicures.
My wife has often reminded me that she has cute feet. What about mine? Suddenly, they were positively adorable. When I showed them to the guys down at the pool hall, they were insanely jealous.
Byrne is the author of 23 books, including two novels about growing up in Dubuque. His Web site is www.byrne.org and his e-mail is bob@byrne.org.
