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Funk never gets jealous.


Not very Italian of him. But him being a mutt and all, I guess that makes sense. In the family I grew up in, jealously was a sign of love. Which is why I’ve been trying for forty years to provoke that response from my husband.

Nothing works.

One time, as my family sat around our dining room table enjoying our evening meal together, I got up to bring something else to the table. In passing, I bent down and whispered in my husband’s ear, “Funk. Some strange man had his hands all over my body today.” The man being our chiropractor, putting me back into alignment.

After digesting the news—instead of my husband flying off on in rage—all my words provoked was his deep, baritone laugh. And while I love hearing Funk laugh, in that instance, it wasn’t very satisfying.

Why I still want to make him jealous is a mystery to me. Really? Like, Funk is my high bar? The best I could’ve done? Why didn’t someone exciting—like any member of the Grateful Dead—pursue me with the same zealousness as Funk did?

Whatever. It’s over now. Still, my husband better watch out. Because ever since I stepped into the power of my middle years, I am getting closer and closer to fully embodying the New and Better Me that I’ve been working towards for years now. Who knows. Maybe with a few more years under my belt, one of those guys from my beloved band might want me.

Oh well. These are the things you think about when you’re trying not to remember that two of your siblings are dead.

Here’s to you if you’ve got someone devoted in your life. Someone who doesn’t smother you, yet lets you know each day that they’ve found a prize in you. All the same, my best advice is that you keep them dangling, begging for more. Which is very Italian of me.

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