Then I read stuff like this:
My frequent references to Mrs. Other McCain (“she’s got a kitchen full of knives and I’ve got to sleep sometime“) are a humorous allusion to a serious reality. When I flew back from Vegas a couple weeks ago, after having been a wee bit reckless at the roulette wheel, Mrs. Other McCain was so mad at me she wouldn’t even pick me up at the airport. She was so mad, in fact, she honestly didn’t care whether I came home or not. It was one of the most awful feelings of my life.
Remember, she met me when I was making $275 a week as the sports editor of a twice-weekly paper in a Georgia carpet-mill town you never heard of. She only married me because I promised her the sun, the moon and the stars, and I’d have never amounted to anything had it not been for (a) my determination to fulfill that promise and (b) having a sensible wife who supplies the necessary caution to balance my wild-eyed impulsiveness. When I was scrambling to find a way home from the airport a couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t just feeling heartbroken over the possible loss of her superfine sexiness, but also facing a potentially shattering blow to my entire self-concept.
Another pathetic middle-aged divorced guy? Not me.
No sir: One life, one wife.
A major reason guys become that pathetic middle-aged divorced stereotype is because, to quote the immortal poetry of Kitty Wells, “too many times, married men think they’re still single.”
Or as is more often the case, they convey that impression by employing a timeworn lie: “My wife doesn’t understand me.”
Girls, if a married guy ever throws that line on you, run — don’t walk — in the opposite direction. Preferably, after you’ve thrown a drink in the guy’s face.
Poor guy. I feel for him. This is why I am single.