A Husband of One's Own

The tall guy here is my husband Roger.

He is wonderful.

It'll be our 15th wedding anniversary this fall and I've long since gotten used to that word, "husband," but I remember that it took a while. Actually, "husband" was never what bothered me; it was the first-person possessive that threw me in the beginning: my husband.

Because I'd never thought I'd have one. And not like, Oh, a Ferrari, I never thought I'd have one, or A brain tumor, I never thought I'd have one. But like I'd woken up one morning with a fluffy pink cottontail on the end of my butt: I never thought I'd have one. And, as with a cottontail, probably, it wasn't an unpleasant sensation, but one did feel vaguely followed.

I used to watch him when he wasn't looking and think, What does he want? It worried me no end because I didn't want him expecting anything, you know? Like if he wore me down long enough I'd turn out to be Donna Reed underneath it all. In fact I made it clear to him many times and in no uncertain terms that I was not going to turn out to be anything if I could help it. I had turned already as far as I had any interest in turning -- I was finished. And if he was looking for something in a warm and sentimental yin sort of model he had better hie himself back to the Barbie side of the board and pronto.

My husband thought I was cute when I said such things. He harbored a not-very-secret conviction that I was actually far more benign than I appeared to be. Ironically, I believe it was this blind and staggeringly stupid faith which saved us, because in a clear-eyed marital meritocracy there is no way in hell I could have earned him.