Goody Two Shoes Read Free Page B

He’s come home smelling like lavender twice now.  Both times he said he was at the club, so I’m zeroing in on the young brunette who’s always flouncing her boobs at him from behind the bar.  And he’s been at the golf club, a lot , lately.  I try to cover the crushing weight I feel on my chest when I think about it.  I’m nearing the place where I throw my hands up in defeat.  A single tear strays down my cheek and Patty see’s it.
    “Aw babe, don’t cry.  I’m telling you, do this with me, it’ll work,” And she touches my shoulder for comfort.
    “Alright then, shock and awe me.  Tell me what I’d have to do to get my husband back.”
    “First you have to forget all those stupid rules that you think are real.  You’d be surprised at how many there are.  There’s a term, ‘pansexual.’  Have you ever heard of it?”
    “Nope.”
    She straightens, peering at me beneath her umbrella sized straw hat, and says, “It means someone who enjoys all kinds of sex.  Different stuff.”
    “Good Lord, what do you mean by different?” not able to pretend I’m not shocked.
    “Oh there’s no telling.  Once there was a man in diapers walking around.  He got off on that shit… probably literally now that I think about it…” She seems momentarily distracted by her own thought.
    “Gross!” I retort with my nose crinkled.
    “Yeah, maybe so, but still I had to respect that.  I couldn’t criticize because I damn sure wouldn’t have believed I’d ever do crazy stuff either.  There’s no law that says that man can’t walk around in a diaper, we just think there is.  If you’d have told me Steve and I would be back together after only six weeks, I’d tell you to talk to your doctor about some new crazy pills.  But sure as shit, we fell in love again.  And that’s what I’m talking about; you never know what’s going to happen until you try it.  It’s best not to cast stones.  You might try something and decide you don’t like it; you may try another thing and find out you like it a whole lot.  You may join the Club with me and go through the training only to find out you’re a closet lesbian.”
    I laugh.
    “Don’t laugh; it happened to that woman from ‘Family Ties.’  Woke up one day and said, ‘I think I like pussy now.’  And so it was.  But seriously, I don’t think anything weird is going to pop out of you if you let go and enjoy yourself.  I’m not jogging on a path to hell here either, just having a good time, mostly with my husband.  Ninety-nine point nine percent of us just rediscover ourselves and our husbands, and that’s all.  It’s a leap, Tara, but it’s how I saved my marriage.  I just woke up one day and said, ‘I’m sick and tired of this shit.’”
    “And so it was,” I say.  Her point strikes dangerously close to home for me though.  If you’ve ever oohed and awed over a new Mercedes and wondered what it would feel like to be the ‘flashy harlot’ driving it, then you have imaginary rules.  Of course I’d never consider driving a Mercedes; my imaginary boundaries are set somewhere between trashy and flashy.  Trashy being a fifty year old in a bikini with a new Tramp Stamp, and flashy meaning someone who has more money than good taste.  Being trashy is a sin, and being flashy is a sin; do let me reassure you that I’m not a sinful woman.  Holy hell do I have imaginary rules!
    I blame my imaginary rules on centuries of Southern genetic prosperity.  But we didn’t start out that way.  No matter the airs my family puts on, we’re all still easily traced back to poor Irish potato farmers.  My family was persecuted and tortured long before anyone knew there were other skin colors, long before Pilgrims met Indians, and long before I met my best friend Patty.  I imagine my Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmamma decided one day, ‘This is absolutely enough of this crap and taught her children manners of the elite.  She puffed us all