Hang around inside my skin for a while and you’ll hear a lot about other men’s wives. Unsolicited, I hear about these women during bus rides, on trains, at meetings, during patient visits, at trivia night, and at various clubs. I hear about them over margaritas, at martini bars, at the holiday buffet, at the car wash, at conferences, on the treadmill, in the sauna at the gym, in the grocery line and not infrequently, in the bathroom , because as a physical therapist I work with a lot of patients who cannot go to the toilet alone. Wives come up a lot in the john. The stories will not just be about their wives, but also their mothers, fiancés, current girlfriends, ex-girlfriends and female neighbors. I’m sure these lovely women are not as bad as I’m told, and I’m sure the pleading looks are somewhat exaggerated for dramatic effect.
This pattern seems to have started in the first grade, when my pals Ricky and Brad came to me wanting love notes penned to their girlfriends. I was the only six-year old who could write cursively, so I was in high demand as a calligrapher-slash-Cyrano de Bergerac. In fact, Ricky, Brad and I spent quite a lot of time together during the three years I lived in that town. It seemed they were always in need of a new love note to send to some girl in the class who was not me. As time went on, all I had to do was enter the conversation/train car/examination room and soon some random guy was talking about his girlfriend, fiancé, wife or ex-, and the story always seemed to follow a common formula: 1) She won’t move/travel/try new things; 2) She is not athletic/musical; 3) She spends too much time cleaning/not enough time cleaning or 4) She won’t/can’t get a job/hobby/degree/off my back.
Often, after hearing these very interesting and informative stories, I get to meet the lovely lady in question, and high hilarity inevitably ensues. These conversations, too, follow a predictable pattern. I find it amusing (and a little sad) that after all these years, with a variety of letters behind my name and experiences on my curriculum vitae, all anyone really wants to know about me is this: Are you married? How long have you been married? Do you have children? Are you planning to have children? Where is your husband? You’re taking Salsa/Tango lessons? Does your husband go with you? You’re getting pierced/your hair cut short? How will your husband feel about that? Where is your husband now? You’re living here/travelling alone? Without your husband? For how long? When was the last time you saw him? When are you seeing him again? Really? Really? These questions are sometimes fired with such great rapidity that all that is missing is a harsh light over the table and a cigarette-smoking Good Cop. I often want a cigarette myself, after these conversations. Or a shot of smoky whiskey, savored alone in a dark corner, no questions asked. Or answered.
I am a board-qualified, state-licensed, trained and certified medical professional, reasonably well-traveled and well-read, a damn good conversationalist (if I do say so myself), guitar player, mixer of margaritas, wearer of glasses, writer, runner, fencer, loyal friend, animal lover and a terrible joke teller. In spite of these qualifications and other potential neutral conversation-starters, the only question that really seems to matter is still: ARE YOU MARRIED? Hello, I’m Dr. Fuqua-Whitley, doctor of physical therapy, treating your husband/son/boyfriend/lover. Have we met? Please don’t be alarmed that I’ve seen your husband/son/boyfriend/lover naked as a jaybird in a hospital gown, counseled him through urinary incontinence, helped him pull his pants up and tested his anal wink and cremaster reflex. He was talking about you the whole time.
December 15, 2010
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