Home Alone


I didn’t get married until I was 35. By that time I was pretty much set in my ways, used to doing what I wanted, when I wanted, without asking anyone for permission or forgiveness.
When you add a second person into the mix, of course that changes, but ingrained habits are tough to break. Shortly after our wedding we went out to dinner with another couple and the husband asked her “How do you feel about Pete flying out to California to fish the Delta next month?”
“Um, excuse me?” she asked, a look of complete confusion on her face. I had made the plans, reserved the ticket and purchased the tackle I thought I’d need without telling anyone. It didn’t really dawn on me to do otherwise.
A few months later, a friend invited me to go redfishing. “Hey, I’m thinking about going to Venice this fall,” I told Hanna.
“You’re not going to Venice without me,” she responded, clearly wise to my game but not to my geography. I knew that she thought I was talking about Venice, Italy, not Venice, Louisiana. When I told her that, she shrugged and said, “Have fun.”
Now, nearly a dozen years into our marriage, she has the fishing bug almost as bad as I do. While I still go on occasional fishing trips with my guy friends, I know that as a general principle she has a right of first refusal on any and all such travel. Now, though, we have a first. Since she successfully coerced a cohort of ladies to travel to El Salto with her this January, she’s realized that I’m more or less expendable, like a vestigial tail. Sure, I pick out the tackle and order the tackle, but once it’s here she’s not afraid to take what she needs. She and her new friends are not only planning a return to El Salto next January (still a few spots available, but filling up fast), but they decided that they need to do something before that.
It looks like they’re headed to Kentucky Lake later this spring. Apparently, my email invite was lost in the mail. I have become obsolete.