(A Romantic Comedy)
My husband walks into the bedroom. I’m sniffling, dabbing at my eyes, watching “Jane Eyre” on Masterpiece Theater.
Hearing the piano notes and seeing the green pastoral hills, he knows he won’t be staying. Not his kind of flick. No gadgets, explosions, or cops snarling from a ledge.
As he observes 19th century characters carrying candles in dark hallways, his lips twist into a smile. “Looks like Mr. Rochester didn’t pay his electric bill.”
We foolish romantics are on a collision course with reality. Imagine Jane Austen stumbling on the bean scene in “Blazing Saddles.”
Now, if I had been born in the 19th century, I would have groped stone walls to get around the estate, for I’m nearsighted. My teeth would have been crooked because I wore braces. Oh, and because of my addiction to hasty pudding, I would have joined “Corset Watchers.”
My poor spouse. I want to transform him into Husband Rochester, to be gallant, talk in an English accent and be fitted with a frilly white shirt.
Reluctantly he agrees, and tugs on the sleeves. “This is humiliating.”
“You approach me in the garden.” I direct him like Spielberg, aiming for a classic smooch fest. “It’s sprinkling rain. Now, ah, look at me longingly.”
“I only give that kind of look when I have heartburn.”
“Get down on one knee.”
“I won’t be able to get back up.”
Okay. Maybe we Americanize this. Inspiration strikes. I had a crush on the actor who played Thomas Jefferson on HBO’s “John Adams.”
“Wear this powdered wig. Pretend you’re Thomas Jefferson and you’re trying to talk Abigail Adams into an affair. I’ll tell you the coast is clear, that John’s in England negotiating some treaty. You whisper directions to the secret entrance at Monticello.”
“That’s it!” He tears the fabric from his chest. “I declare my independence.”
Men. Can’t live with or without ‘em. Can’t get them into ruffled shirts, either.
But if we women have our fantasies, somewhere there’s a Hooters entrance door with our husbands’ names on it.
One afternoon, I’m typing on my laptop. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a Victoria’s Secret catalog plops onto the keyboard.
“Order what’s on page 35,” my husband says.
I look. Gasp. “Not even my elbow would fit into that.”
“You have your Rochester and Thomas Jefferson fantasy. That’s mine.”
“But mine won’t get us arrested.” I glance at the smoldering, pouty image. “Those scraps of lace will take one look at my cellulite and be sent screaming back to Asia, or wherever it’s manufactured.”
“They airbrush those models, Sidney,” he says. “They have cellulite, too.”
“Sure they do. Just like they wear powdered wigs.”
Later, I lecture myself. Fantasies can be dangerous. Reality’s better and more meaningful. Besides. No airbrushed photo can match my husband’s ultimate fantasy.
When I cook a seven-course meal.
SIDNEY IVENS 