Hang Me on the Fridge
by Susan Law Corpany

Will the real trophy wife please stand up?

My husband Thom’s 30-year high school class reunion was approaching. He politely informed me that I had a mere four months to be in trophy wife shape.
I corrected his misconception. “No, that’s not how it works. This is your reunion. You’re the one who has to lose weight. I’ll lose weight for my reunion. I don’t know these people and I don’t care what they think about me.”
Still, the countdown continued. “Three more months to be in trophy wife condition.” I dug out my Weight Watchers literature from my last join-up.
“Two months until the reunion.” I took the dog on a couple of extra-long walks. He lost three pounds.
“The reunion is next month.”
“I know how I can lose 246 pounds real fast.”

“So you’re Thom’s wife.”
“Yes, last time I checked.”

“So you’re Thom’s wife.”
“I am.”

The only thing that gave some variety was the occasional confused look I would get.
“Your name is Susan, right? I remember you differently.”
“Yes, I’m Susan and no, I’m not Susan. Thom’s first wife died.”
“And he married another Susan?”
I extended my hand. “There were a lot of us born during the 50’s. Yes, I’m Susan, the Sequel.”
“Is it true the sequel is never as good as the original?”
“Check with Thom on that. I can’t write my own review. I thought Toy Story II was pretty good, though.”

Even extroverts like me have to admit that there is nothing more boring than being the spouse at a class reunion. It was true . Nobody cared who I was, and I didn’t care that they didn’t care. Thom had a good time and that was all that mattered.

A few weeks later I was running errands with my youngest stepson, Christopher. Dinnertime was approaching. I pulled into Pizza Hut. We ducked inside out of the rain. “Do you want pepperoni and black olive or . . .”I turned around to ask Chris what toppings he thought we should get and found him talking to someone.
“This is my band teacher from last year.”
I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“And this,” I heard Chris say “is my dad’s new trophy wife.” In one glance Mr. Band Teacher took in my rain-soaked matted-down hair, make-up-free face, damp t-shirt and well-worn jeans. I saw a smirk playing about his lips. I smiled back and gave Chris something the people in Hawaii call “stink eye.”

I searched my hard drive for something clever to say but came up blank. Pizzas may only take a half hour but snappy comebacks take four to six hours.