Rained-on matted-down hair, jeans and a t-shirt, and then I heard the introduction that came from my stepson's mouth. "This is my dad's new trophy wife."

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.