The man of the house

My husband went out on his own the other night. I was a bit worried – moreso in his ability to not embarrass himself after a few drinks than anything else he may have gotten up to.

In the past I wouldn’t have wanted him to go out on his own at all. Before we were married I imagined all sorts of scenarios that involved my husband lying unconscious in an alleyway to lying unconscious in some strange woman’s bed. I was a little insecure, but I probably needn’t have worried. He has always been the honourable type, and with a boatload of friends and gossips about, he probably wouldn’t have been game to face the wrath of a woman scorned anyway.

Which brings me back to the other night. It was the night of his twenty-five year school reunion. I was a little miffed that I hadn’t been invited at first, but upon review, and having been subjected to numerous get-togethers with his school friends in the past, I was pretty sure that I would have only heard the echoes of past shenanigans, which, as the drinks progressed, would have become more outlandish and muddied as memories lapsed into the next beer.

I had a running bet with the woman down the road that he wouldn’t make it home that night, and I’m sorry to say that I won. Apparently the night’s stragglers all moved onto one lucky home owner’s entertainment room, and my husband was found asleep under the pool table the next morning – by himself.

How times have changed. I wasn’t worried about his physical status, he can look after himself. But I was grateful that it wasn’t my house that they had all found themselves in at 3am in the morning.


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