Almost Perfect

By Hugh O'Neil

One husband learns he's not the stuff his wife's fantasies are made of. Will his pride (and their marriage) survive?

My wife and I were in bed one night, watching folksinger James Taylor on the tube, when my world was changed forever. "Now, he's my type," Jody purred hungrily.

"Pardon me, doll?" I said, sure I'd heard her wrong.

"He's my type," she repeated, suddenly aware of what she'd said and how she'd said it.

"Your type?" I croaked.

"Yeah, you know, all tall and lanky," she effused, trying to act as though this was something we'd both known forever. "I'm a sucker for a tall drinka water."

I wondered two things: when exactly my wife had turned into Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke, and whether I'd be able to draw breath again anytime soon.

Who says marriages have no surprises? Twenty-five years into mine, I had just been poleaxed with a revelation. First, the bad news: There is a class of tall, gangly men to whom my wife is, at some creature level, attracted. Then, the worse news: At 5 feet 10 inches, 185 pounds, I am nobody's tall drinka water. Turns out, I am not my wife's type.

Over the next few days, I tried to convince myself that it didn't matter that Jody's then 19-year-old blood had not quickened the instant I first walked into frame. After all, we had a history, two children, and a flourishing partnership. Wasn't all that more important than my childish notion that we should be each other's physical ideal?

Then, for a while, I imagined I could become her type. In search of stature, I hitched my pants up an inch or two. Chafing ensued. I tried to shamble, in a sort of James Taylor-esque way. But at my height, it came across as more of a slither.

Soon, my disappointment turned into a taste for payback. One night, when we were working on the New York Times crossword puzzle, I pointed to a lingerie-clad woman on the adjacent page. "Now, she's my type," I said.

"What's a five-letter word for 'give me a break'?" Jody said. "I'm your type.

"Well, yes, of course, dear. I just couldn't help noticing that this woman in the aubergine undies is attractive too. Don't you think she's lovely?" Jody just laughed.

"Mmmmmm," I enthused, two days later, at a Beyoncé video. I tried to sound hungry.

"Are you trying to say Beyoncé is your type?" Jody asked.

"Oh, no," I said with James Taylor–ish innocence. "But she's nice-looking, isn't she?"

"Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story," she said simply.

"Pardon me?"

"Tommy Tune," she added.

"What are you talking about?" I said, perfectly aware that she was naming all the tall drinksa water who, unlike me, made her glad she was a woman.