Women, I suspect, are more cynical than men. “Can I get you something?” I asked a guest at a party recently where, truth be told, I wasn’t the host but was driven by instinctive good manners to play the role. “Yes, you can,” she confirmed, “I’d like, please, a new husband.” And turning to my son, a student of law, added for good measure, “You should forget all this corporate, civil, criminal stuff, son, and specialise in divorce law.” “Yes ma’am,” said the young lawyer-in-the-making, embarrassed at being caught in the middle of some crossfire he was still too naive to understand, “Would you like me to file for a divorce for you?” “What a nasty little boy you are, filling my head with such wicked thoughts,” she retorted, “but a new husband … now that would be nice.”
Wives, everywhere I look, are rising up to gang up against their husbands. “Well, we’re off on a holiday to Laos and Angkor Wat,” said an acquaintance just the other day, “a whole week of bliss.” “How lovely for you,” I said, “I know your husband and you need a break.” “From each other, sweetie,” the neighbour gushed, “which is why I’m away with my gang of girlfriends.” “And your husband?” I asked. “Keep an eye on him,” she said sternly, “don’t let him get up to any stag, boy-club stuff,” which was rich coming from someone whose companions on the road were not just her own same sex, they were rowdier to boot.
Wherever you go, women are breaking rules — smoking behind their husbands’ backs, knocking back more tequila shots than their poor hubbies can manage whiskies, going through their credit cards, meeting up for girlie lunches and all-girl drinkathons, while their poor spouses stay at home to handle the kids, organise their homework, and go about the business of keeping their wives in alcohol, tobacco and accessories.
If all that wives want is to have some fun, it’s strange they should go to extreme lengths to make sure their husbands don’t have any, signing them up for language classes, music lessons, gym sessions and golf coaching. While the poor husband begs for mercy at the hands of some yoga trainer, the wife is out spending time and money where it’s likely to be least productive: at spas and in branded stores. “I do think, darling,” I actually heard one say to her husband, “you ought to put on a little weight, I don’t want you looking attractive for the other gals!”
At parties, they giggle together, go out for movies abandoning their men, attend talks ostensibly about bonding except they’re actually about stamping out the meeker of the species, and gossip madly about everything from their mums-in-law to their own children, laying the blame for both at their husbands’ door. Tell them it’s time to go home and they’re likely to say, “Oh, don’t be a bore, go fetch me a drink,” or even, perhaps, “Go take your face somewhere, can’t you see I’m talking to my friends?”
They don’t talk about taking over the planet — they’ve already done that — but more crushingly, they don’t talk about their spouses either, which is, well, a little demeaning: surely we merit at least token mention, even if in passing. They seem to have other, more exciting things to focus on: The dishy men at the party, for instance (but men who eye pretty young things are “so sick”); the higher stiletto, pricier bag, blingier watch; the latest “it” brand, or movie, or star. “Really,” I heard my wife’s best friend whisper to her, “we all need two husbands each, those who we’ve already got at home, and the other kind,” she sighed, “that we can take out to party with.”
