Simple Life

My Wife’s Secret Life

And why I’m happily married, blissfully in the dark

by Jim DoDson I recently discovered that my

wife, Wendy, enjoys a secret life.

Actually, I’ve known about it for years. I just never let her know that I knew about it.

It’s also possible that she’s always known that I know about it (and has chosen to keep that a secret, too).

Either way, the woman is a master at keeping her husband happily married and blissf ully in the dark.

C onsider t he h ig h dr a ma of our re c ent unpla nne d k itchen ma ke over.

One evening last spring, our fancy German dishwasher blew up like the Hindenburg and flooded the k itchen of the charming midcentur y bungalow we’ve spent the last five years faithf ully restoring.

I suggested we move to Scotland.

Within days, however, Wendy had rallied a small army of specialists with industrial driers, fans and blueprints for a complete renovation.

Curiously, they all seemed to know my wife by her first name.

T houg h I’m hard ly t he suspicious t y p e, such f r ater na l b on hom ie d id ma ke me moment ar i ly wonder if Da me Wendy m ig ht have a pr ivate, se c ond c are er a s a k itchen sub c ont r ac tor a nd home ma ke over ar t ist.

One of her not-so -secret pleasures, af ter all, are the makeover programs playing around the clock on HGT V, brick-and-mor tar dramas where — in the span of 45 minutes — unspeakably decrepit houses are transformed into suburban show palaces by clever couples who make witt y remarks about shiplap and infinit y tubs.

Not that I’m the jealous t ype, but my bride speaks so casually about home-rehab hosts Joanna and Chip Gaines or the dork y Proper t y Brothers or that sweet, folksy couple redoing the entire town of L aurel, Mississippi, it’s as if she actually knows them. And I can almost picture the Good Bones gals whispering sweet nothings about rare Victorian beadboard or vintage crown molding in Dame Wendy’s wise conchlike ear.

Unlike the unrealit y of these home makeovers, our massive k itchen “reno” took nearly a year to complete, including endless delays due to COV ID -19. We upgraded the subflooring, wiring and plumbing; installed a beautif ul Tuscan tile floor; searched t wo counties for new granite counters; and outfitted the entire k itchen with new appliances. We also ordered so many takeout meals that I considered moonlighting for Gr ubhub.

I’ll confess, there were moments when I had beg uiling dreams of mist y Scotland — specifically a rather fetching one in which I am rowing a dinghy across L och L omond with a provocatively dressed (and pre-crazy) K im Basinger sitting in the bow.

Strictly bet ween us, I have no idea what this dream could mean. But I’m not dinghy enough to tell my wife about it because she’ll know exactly what it means, and I really don’t want to spoil the surprise if K im and I ever reach the other side of the loch.

Besides, doesn’t a bloke deser ve a few healthy secrets of his own? Sadly, I don’t have many others. Unless you count the fantasy about being the first man in histor y to ride his John Deere lawn tractor across America. Of course, that dream died when Wendy sold my tractor at a yard sale in Maine right before we moved to Carolina. She claims there was no room for it on the moving tr uck, meaning I couldn’t at least drive it home to the South and make a few bucks mowing lawns along the way.

I recently heard a top marriage specialist on the radio insist that the secret to a long and happy marriage is “not having too many secrets, but enough to keep a marriage interesting.”

T he specialist, a female psychologist, didn’t specif y how many secrets keep a marriage interesting, or conversely, how many keep a

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Fact is, I am perfectly happy operating on a strictly “need-to -know” basis. She knows that what I don’t know won’t hur t me, which may be the key to our own long and happy marriage.

Besides, we have an enviable distribution of domestic duties and responsibilities.

Wendy r uns the house, pays the bills, makes most of the impor tant decisions and never fails to find my missing eyeglasses/wallet/car keys or T V remote when it’s clear some thoughtless nit wit has mistakenly put them somewhere just to make me go crazy.

Suf fic e it to say, I k now my prop er plac e in our happy domest ic re a lm, out side in t he yard qu iet ly m issing my b elove d John De ere law n t r ac tor.

On an entirely separate f ront, I have no idea how much money I earn f rom my so -called literar y career. I simply put together words that amuse me, send them of f to editors I’ve never met who (sometimes) like and (eventually) pay me real folding money for them.

It’s a sweet myster y how this magic happens. I f rank ly never know my precise material wor th, year to year, but I assure you it’s no myster y to Dame Wendy how much money I make — or am due — down to the last far thing.

Home and family, however, are where Wendy’s secret life tr uly excels.

Our four f ully grown and theoretically independent children constantly call up f rom faraway places to share their endless existential crises or ask her advice on all manner of discreet topics, confiding things they wouldn’t dream of telling the old man, whom they only call when they need more far things to cover the rent.

But that’s OK with the old man in question. T he older he gets, the less he knows and the happier he is.

For it’s all about perspective — i.e. my wife’s clever design for our happily married life.

One final example shall suf fice.

T he other af ternoon, I popped into the house f rom tr ying to star t up my walk-behind mower for the first lawn-cutting of the spring and discovered that my multitask ing domestic Chief Executive was putting the final touches on our brand new f ully renovated k itchen in a manner most unusual.

She’d just assembled an elaborate rolling car t she’d ordered f rom some chic West Coast design house and was dancing r umba-like to South Af rican reggae music as she decorated Easter cook ies for neighborhood k ids.

“I’m think ing of painting the den a lovely new green for the spring,” she blithely announced, sashaying past me. “It’s called Mountain Air. W hat do you think?”

As our elegant new dishwasher purred away, she waved the sample color on her smar t phone, which isn’t remotely as smar t as she is but probably a good deal smar ter than her husband.

Af ter 20 years of happy marriage, I’m no April fool.

I simply told her that I loved it and headed back to my stubborn lawn mower, secretly dreaming about K im Basinger riding a John Deere tractor through the mist y Scottish Highlands. OH