wordsmithlind

I sat at my desk dreading the drive home.  The good thing is that my wife wouldn’t be home.  She would either be working out or tanning; I don’t know, I stopped paying attention.  My wife used to have beautiful, fair skin, now it looks like a piece of leather.  She tells me that she needs to do it to stay competitive at work, whatever that means.  Her skin is getting really bad, so she makes up for it by applying more and more make-up.  She didn’t wear make-up when I met her, now she looks like an overdone Raggedy Anne.  She looks so unnatural, but that is the look she is going for, fake.  She has been complaining lately that her boobs are starting to sag, which is true, but it does not look bad.  I saw her looking up breast implants on the internet.  Nothing I can say will stop her from getting it done once she has her mind set on it.  She asked me what I thought about them.  “Well, they kind of feel like rockhard balls of sand.”  “How would you know?”  “This girl that I knew from high-school let me feel hers when I was at a bar in college.”  Then she makes her huffing noise which she knows annoys the piss out of me.  I know one day  in the not so distant future I will be driving her home from the plastic surgeon with her wailing and moaning in the passenger seat.   This day I do not look forward to.  I look even less forward to the day she has a party for herself so she can wear a revealing dress.  Then all of her friend’s can euh and ahh her.  She will feel on top of the world for a few weeks, maybe a month, then she will grow insecure about something else.  Usually she makes herself feel better by buying some expesive clothing that she will wear only once or twice courtesy of my credit card.  Each month I open the bill slowly as if that will keep the numbers from appearing on the paper.  I always know to expect the worst, but my worst is always much lower than the worst that she can do.  People admire me, though, because I have what would be called a “hot wife.”  I catch guys checking her out all the time while I am with her.  I have to admit, it does make me feel pretty good about myself.  Other times I just want to tell the first guy that comes along that he can have her.  Give her away like a puppy.  I always thought sex with the hottest girl in the room would be the best; definitely not the case.  Being a hot chick is more than a look, it is a way of life.  That attitude that all hot chicks have, that attitude that they are better than the rest of the world and it is a privilege to even look at her, well that attitude carries over into the bedroom.  “No, I don’t want to, I just took a shower.  I have to get some sleep or I’ll look like hell at work.  Maybe tomorrow, sweetie.”  Tomorrow never comes, neither do I.  Well, never when I want to.  It always happens on her schedule.  Sometime between 730 PM and 830 PM on weekdays (after she works out assuming her favorite shows are not on of course), rarely on Saturdays, and only on Sunday before 8 PM.  A high maintence princess who wants everyone to oogle at her but no one to touch her.  She is what every guy thinks he wants.  I will trade 100 of her for a girl with brains and no sexual insecurities.  Maybe even a 1000.  Hell, I’ll trade her for a decent chicken sandwich at this point.  Anything to be rid of her.  Oh great, there’s the garage door, an evening of no sex and bad conversation up ahead…in between commercial breaks that is.   

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