“All men are bastards.” Just one of the lessons my mom imparted from the front seat of her Chevy Impala. “Don’t ever forget that!”
I see her knuckles poking the soft leather of her driving gloves as she squeezes the steering wheel. She often gave me life lessons in the car. Often on the run from some upsetting situation or another. Of course, at 7 or 8 years old, I didn’t yet have a context for most of it. And because I loved my dad so much, I assumed my mother was wrong most of the time. Turns out, that was correct. Most men are not bastards. At least most men that I know. In fact, I love men. Adore them. Including all of the ones I’ve married, almost married, lived with, and dated. My best friend from high school is a guy. The parents of my son’s friends that I feel closest to are men - well - a lot of them. Both of my siblings are men. My problem isn’t that I don’t like men. My problem is, I don’t know how to be a good wife to them. I know how to be a good friend. I know how to be a decent sister. I know how to be a great lay, an okay girlfriend and a pretty competent drinking buddy. But the good wife thing? A work in progress.