Despite what certain members of my family might think, I did not fall off the turnip truck yesterday, if you know what I mean.
It’s fine. I understand why certain people feel a need to smile and nod and make up elaborate stories to explain their actions — even though, if you think about it, those stories don’t make the slightest bit of sense. They know and I know that there’s more going on than anyone is willing to admit, and we’ve all just agreed to accept this cover story, because it’s easier than digging into what, honestly, would be a really unpleasant discussion about certain inescapable facts.
I’m not a child, okay? I know how the world works. Heck, let’s just put it out there, once and for all:
Against his better judgment, my brother-in-law has been dragged into an elaborate scheme in which he and Hank sneak off to a strip club.
Yes, Hank. I know! And guess what? I DON’T CARE!
Honestly, what kind of wife would I be, to tell my husband and my brother-in-law — one recovering from multiple gun shots wounds, one still battling lung cancer — that they don’t have the right to enjoy a few harmless hours at the Happy Hen Hut? Sure, I’m a feminist, and I might wish that those women would spend some of their tips taking classes at UNM, but I’m not a monster. And it’s a free country — they have a right to express themselves, and my husband, like everybody else, has a right to enjoy that expression of their… selves.
No, what bugs me is the lack of trust. The deception. Everybody’s SO SURE they know how I would react if they just told me the truth. Well, maybe I’m not the no-fun party pooper they think I am. Did they ever think of that? Nope.
Instead, we all have to go through this crazy charade, where I have to pretend that my husband is off to yet another rock show. I’m no dummy. They’ve been to three or four of these “rock shows,” and haven’t come back with so much as a pebble. And when Walt drives up with Hank, hours later, they both reek of fried chicken. Oh wait, doesn’t the Happy Hen Hut have an all-you-can-eat lunch buffet? Why yes, I think they do.
Certain former-and-almost-certainly-future law enforcement agents might think they are the only ones with keen powers of observation and the ability to connect the dots, but newsflash, Hank: I do your laundry. And I know you didn’t get that ketchup stain on your Dockers at any rock show.
Here’s the thing: Even with all the silly sneaking around, it’s really no big deal. All good marriages are built on certain “understandings.” For example, Hank doesn’t give me a lot of guff about taking my car to the dealership for oil changes, even though it costs twice as much Quickie Lube, because I’ve explained to him about the blondies in the customer lounge. (And also because I always bring one back for him.)
Internet, if my husband wants to sneak off to a strip club and tell me he’s going to a rock show, I can live with that. Not least because it’s a big improvement over the days when he used to lay in bed for hours, “organizing” his rock collection and secretly watching “The Erotic Adventures of Mandy” on one of those nosebleed channels I’m not supposed to know we get. (FYI, Hank? I also pay the cable bill.)
So yes, by all means, fellas, go to another “rock show,” and have a great time. Just know: You can’t keep a secret from your family forever — sooner or later, we always figure out the truth.