Reality, according to him

It is always a good idea, as a couple, to do a little reality check once in a while -- say, every 3 years or so. This responsibility will primarily fall to the wife, because the typical husband often lives in a Different Reality, one somewhat removed from Actual Reality.

The husband, for instance, may think things are humming along quite smoothly in The Household. He takes care of his immediate needs -- shaving, and all that -- and he is vaguely aware that other things in the household get done. How, he is not always sure. Perhaps, like for the comic strip cat Bucky, there exists in his household a magic cupboard that automatically restocks itself. And a magic closet that refills itself with clean clothes. Yes, life is good.

This is where those reality checks come in. SOMEONE must remind him that there is no magic cupboard, and that the clothes do not wash and dry and fold themselves. And that SOMEONE would like a little appreciation shown for this once in a while.

Generally the husband is only too happy to express his appreciation. His method of expression, however, may not be in keeping with Actual Reality.

The husband's thoughts will naturally tend toward the type of appreciation he would like to receive. Believing that his wife, as his other half, would feel the same, he offers her the best thank-you he can possibly imagine, and he offers it almost reverently:

"Can I make a trophy for you, for BEST WIFE IN THE WORLD?"

He is envisioning past days of glory, when boys he knew with trophies were heralded and envied, and he imagines how proud and excited his wife must be at the thought of receiving such a coveted --

But his wife is shaking her head. "No," she says. "I'd just have to dust it. I'd rather you make me a sandwich for my lunch once in a while. Oh, and let me have the parking spot more often."

He is dumbfounded. This does not make any sense. He offers her Shangri-La, and she wants...salami.

"You...don't want a trophy?" he says haltingly.

"No," she repeats, more emphatically.

He is silent for a moment. Slowly, he begins to realize that his wife inhabits a reality far different from his own. If she does not swoon at the thought of receiving a trophy, he must try another tack.

"Then, can I have a trophy?" he says. And is further mystified when the sandwich his wife had been making makes sudden contact with his person. She mutters something about a parking spot. He decides to retreat before she can express her displeasure with her car.

He files this away with other little tidbits he has learned about his wife ("When she asks you in a dreamy voice if you would like to come out on the patio with her to admire the stars, do not say 'As soon as Lost is over, hon,' " and "Do not assume that just because she is perfectly capable of opening her own car door that she enjoys doing so"). Ah, women. The inhabitants of some far-off, completely mystifying reality. And with that thought the husband retreats contentedly into his own, understandable, reality. For at least another 3 years or so.

But secretly, his wife thinks that although a trophy would simply gather dust, it was sweet of him to think of it.