or, not; a re-visit to the land of my trophy bride
Trophy Bride
I’m standing on the
deck of his million-dollar home
with my neurologist friend
as our wives wander
around in the yard below us
picking flowers
and chatting.
Doc and I are sipping glasses of wine
when he says to me,
“Your wife is
kind of a trophy bride, huh?”
My wife, Patti,
and I got together
when I didn’t have a “pot to piss in
nor a window to throw it out of.”
(I know, not very original
but too perfectly to the point
to pass up here.)
that was when Patti and I were 45,
we’re now 73.
So, once again,
after 28 years together
and now senior citizens,
Doc’s asking if she’s my
“trophy bride?”
But of course
his remark is largely
complementary,
and goes along
with many other men friends’
comments
about how oddly impossible
it seems to them
that Patti,
pretty and smart
and classy as she is,
could have ended up with me,
despite the presence,
these days,
of my enormous ego
and grandiose sense of
self-importance.
But she did
and here we are;
and so my 73-year-old
Trophy Bride is carrying
some long, orange foxgloves
across the beautifully manicured
lawn below
and being admired.
Which works for me,
so I answer,
“Yep… kind of.”
BTW,
my Patti is making a great thanksgiving
feast for herself and me
and our good friend’s:
Billy (age 61)
and his mom (age 93).
Bottom line,
it helps if your
the trophy is a saint
who can cook.
