Yes, I know; everyone who knows me is frowning at the title of this
post and scratching their head. Don’t worry; it’ll make sense—maybe.
One day at work, a few of the guys were sitting around discussing their
first wives, some favorably, some not so favorably. The stories grew wilder by
the minute and, like they were competing in some primal contest, each one tried
to top the other.
Not to be outdone, I joined in the conversation. I told them all about
my first wife, how pretty she was, how loving, caring, and supportive she was,
and intelligent too—after all, she did marry me. (Some would insist this would
be more of an argument against her intelligence). I bragged on how well
she could cook—as evidenced by my ever-expanding stomach—and how she was a
great mother to our children. I kept talking for a good five minutes or better,
regaling them with the many wonders of my first wife.
It must have been something in my tone, or my eyes. Or, maybe I didn’t
do a very good job of keeping the smirk off my face, but finally, one of the
guys said, “How come I get the feeling you’re not really being honest with us?”
I said, “What do you mean? Everything I’ve told you about her is the
absolute truth.” And it was.
Another one of them gave me a disbelieving frown. “I didn’t know you’d
been married before.”
“I haven’t,” I said. “Didn’t know we were talking about second
wives. I’m still married to the first one. After all I’ve told you about her,
why would you think I’d want to change?”
They all laughed and shook their heads. And then, they changed the
subject. Guess they didn’t want to talk about wives any more, be they first,
second, or even third wives.
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