I love my wife, I really do, but sometimes…

A couple weeks ago, my wife and I were enjoying a fine summer evening on the porch of our new house (light breeze in the air, streetlights just coming on, a little red left in the western sky, neighborhood quiet and content), when my wife said, “Your columns haven’t been so great lately.”

I nearly spilled my coffee.

Jeez, what a thing to say to a guy, I thought. And then I reminded myself that this was a benign criticism from my wife. Normally, when my writing isn’t up to par, a very different string of words (not suitable for print) comes out.

“Really,” she said. “Ever since we moved, your columns have been not as good as they used to be.”

My ego twitched.

“How so?” I asked, wanting to say, Can you blame a guy? We just moved and expanded to a weekly paper. I’ve been a little distracted. Major life changes have a way of hampering creativity. She knew all this, of course, so I kept my mouth shut. And then she hit me where it hurt.

“They haven’t been very funny.”

Now hold the train. Not funny? Not funny? How could you say that? I’m a married man. All I have is funny to fall back on. And no matter how bad my jokes, it’s your job to laugh at them. Isn’t that the unspoken credo between husbands and wives, after all?

Getting defensive now, what I also didn’t say, was moving has put me more in touch with my feminine side than I’m comfortable with. So maybe my creative side has taken a back seat. Where I formerly didn’t pay much attention to window coverings and accent pieces, I’m now saying things like, “Oh, that would be cute [CUTE!] by the fireplace.”

“All I’m saying is Mason wrote a really good column [she’s referring to his one last edition on superstitions].”

And the blade sinks deeper. Outshined in my wife’s eyes by my protégé? And aren’t I too young to have a protégé? I wanted to pick up the phone and fire Mason.

“So what should I do?” I asked. “Make something up so I can beat the pants off Mason’s writing?”

And since when did this become a competition between Mason and I? Of course, if I said this to her, she would have undoubtedly sighed, “Male pride” and said “I’m not making it a competition. You are.”

You bet I am.

(Sorry, Mason, but when it comes to my wife’s respect of my writing, no holds barred. Game on.)

“Just pick up the pace a bit,” she responded.

Will do, honey. And I think you just gave me all the material I need.

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