I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression Read Free Page B

tall as Daddy, isn’t he?”
    “Daddy who?”
    “Boy, ladies sure act silly over movie stars.”
    “I don’t know if I can explain it or not,” I said slowly, “but Paul Newman to a tired housewife is like finding a plate of bourbon cookies at a PTA open house. It’s putting on a girdle and having it hang loose. It’s having a car that you don’t have to park on a hill for it to start. It’s matched luggage, dishes that aren’t plastic and evenings when there’s something better to do than pick off your old nail polish.
    “Paul Newman, lad, is not a mere mortal. He never carries out garbage, has a fever blister, yawns, blows his nose, has dirty laundry, wears pajama tops, carries a thermos, or dozes in his chair or listens to the ball game.
    “He’s your first pair of heels, your sophomore year, your engagement party, your first baby. Good grief, boy, he’s the Eagle on its way to the moon. Don’t you understand that?”
    “I don’t think so,” he said. “Anyway, his horse was pretty neat.”
    As I passed the window, I saw my reflection. Flats. Head scarf. Daughter’s windbreaker with 71 and two stripes on the sleeve. Mixi skirt (long and short). Who was I kidding? With the kind of day I had, I’d settle for the horse.
    Like most women, I work at marriage, trying to keep alive the excitement and stimulation that made me marry in the first place. I convinced my husband that I have a friend who, every Friday, carries on a clandestine luncheon with her own husband.
    She drives her car into town and he drives his. They meet at some obscure little restaurant, get a table in the rear where they hold hands and stare lovingly into one another’s eyes. In the parking lot after their tryst, they kiss good-by and she whispers, “I’ll try to make it next Friday.”
    He laughed until he snorted, “How bored can a woman get?”
    “So bored she would meet Walter Brennan without his teeth … at McDonald’s and go dutch.”
    “Who do you know who is that desperate?”
    “Me,” I said. “Every woman has to romanticize her marriage. Why don’t we do it?”
    “I’d feel like a fool,” he said. Then, sensing my disappointment he added, “Okay, I’ll meet you at Ernie’s Eats next Friday.”
    I dressed carefully, feeling a bit foolish, yet with acertain sense of wickedness. I parked the car and ran to him. He looked at me intently. “What are you thinking?” I asked softly.
    “Did you bring your American Express card? If you didn’t we’ll have to go to the Beer and Bloat Palace across from the office. They cash checks on Friday.”
    “You devil you,” I countered, “you mustn’t say things like that until we’re alone.”
    “What happened to the fender?” he said. “Another parking meter run out in front of you?”
    “We do have to stop meeting like this,” I said. “Every week I say I am not coming, but when Friday comes I am helpless.”
    “Are your corns bothering you again? You don’t look too good under the eyes. Like maybe you ought to get the load off your feet.”
    “It’s eye make-up, precious. Just for you. Notice anything else different about me?”
    “You sewed the button on your coat.”
    “The perfume, you madcap. I won’t wear it again until you promise to behave yourself.”
    “What’ll you have?” he asked, opening the menu. “Unless you’re too much in love to eat.”
    “Are you crazy?” I asked, grabbing the menu. “Make it two hamburgers, an order of onion rings, a double malt, and banana cream pie.”
    Naturally, I don’t want any recognition or awards, but I’ve forgiven my husband for a lot of things during our twenty-three-year marriage.
    1. I forgive him for not tanning. Actually, I have devoted my entire life to getting my husband tanned. I have basted him with oil, marinated him with lotions, tossed him on all sides, and broiled him to perfection. (Frankly, if I had spent as much time in the kitchen as I spent on him, I’d outdistance the