I AM the other woman. I am the wife. I have all the benefits, and you have the very best of our man.
Yes, you get elegant hotels and stolen weekends at the cottage along the strand. But I have the strong, sturdy house on the pretty little cul de sac, the one with the manicured lawn and the towering tree in the front yard. I have watched that tree grow from just a twig, and I have hoped for, prayed for, remained patient and supportive with our man, who promised he would flourish just like that triumphant Torrey Pine. Our man made discreet inquiries all around until he found a skilled, experienced gardener, certified in horticulture and equipped with all the best references, all the best tools; our man said, "It will protect our investment in the home," meaning he would have a few more precious weekend hours to spend with you. The gardener keeps the rose bushes in perfect trim, like our man keeps himself in perfect trim, so that he will look good for me, and perform well with you. We agree our man looks strong and distinguished in those pin-striped, vested suits, his body well-tailored to his clothes, just like the Disneyland ice-plant is well-tailored along the edges of the antique-stone walkway, Malibu lights and all.
You and our man have your precious little secrets, all the little double entendres and innuendoes that make your delicious-salacious connection just a little extra piquant. I, however, have the beautiful daughters and all their secrets; and I have all the friends of the beautiful daughters and all their secrets, too. I know exactly what shade of blonde Alexis, our arch-rival for Trevor's affection, uses to highlight her hair, and I numbered among the first to learn that Alexis plans to swim this season instead of going-on in softball. I know that peek-a-boo pink is our favorite shade of nail polish, and I know just how to do the math for calculating the right "synergy" softball bat; I even know all our bra sizes and what kind of tampons we need. You know just how our man likes his Starbucks, and you know his shirt measurements and preferences in cuff links; but I know that we have three straight tests in three straight honors classes on Thursday morning, so our beautiful eleventh grader will need plenty of Starbucks all her own. You and he may speak a DaVinci-like code, but I know the mystery language of the sisterhood.
Yes, you get the lovely baubles and bangles for which our man's secretary so carefully shops. She does have exquisite taste, doesn't she? And our man's secretary always shows sense and discretion enough to keep our tastes, colors, and sizes well separate. Yes, our man certainly has showered you with lots of pretty things. I, however, receive the more-than-respectable paycheck; direct from the firm right into the bank account with no perilous stops between. Each month, as I pay the gas and electric, the home phone and all the cell phones, the water and the sewer, I also set aside just a little to make sure our man properly can feed and care for you. We cannot feel totally certain he would make that provision on his own.
You accidentally bumped-into his sister at Water Tower Place, and she treated you kindly, because she knows her brother as well as I. I, however, have the entire familyhis family, and most of my ownon all major holidays, the ones on which he sneaks out"I'm going running," he says, suited-up and his running shoes so perfectly whitestealing, cleverly-concealing a few precious minutes for calling you. You have his protests, "Of course, I love you!" and I have the family's secret stuffing recipe, his grandmother's touch for making the cranberry relish from scratch, the perfect balance among the magic elixirs for pouring his mother's "old fashion." And I have the grace and wisdom to say nothing when he returns from his "run" sweatless and not breathless. The beautiful daughters remain none the wiser, for I, too, can keep a secret. They need their Daddy as their hero.
Yes, you have the comfort of our man's body beside you. You and he, entwined, slip blissfully into the midnights. I, however, give comfort, solace, consolation, and encouragement when our man's body betrays him. You get all the glamour and mystique of him, almost an International Man of Mystery when he plays his role just right. I get the skidmarks, the seat left-up, the post-its stuffed into the jacket pockets, the dirty ashtrays, the trail of debris he strings along behind him wherever he goes. I see him in his derelict old boxers and torn-up college tee as he sweats-out the flu, coughs-out bronchitis, relieves his neuritis, neuralgia and all the other ailments commercials claim their remedies can cure. You see him coiffed and proper; I see him feverishly rubbing-in the Rogaine, slavishly taking his medication, and vainly crunching his tummy over that silly Pilates ball. You have the benefit of knowing our man in the spotlight, sometimes even sharing him in the limelight; but I have the privilege of caring for him in the very cold, dim and menacing morning light.
When you occasionally think of me, I would guess you guess I hate you. I don't. No, I never will invite you for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, or even the Fourth of July; but neither will I pass along any of our man's deepest, darkest fears, his nightmares, or his childhood traumas. You have the privilege of knowing the best of his desires; and I have the benefit of knowing our man's heart. I would guess you guess, maybe, I have grown to hate him. I don't. You have the benefit of loving our man for all he is today. I have the privilege of loving all he still may become in a very long string of tomorrows.