The (Local) Surreal Life

I’ve mentioned before that my husband is well-known in town. Since I used to be a TV person, I know exactly what he’s going through. It’s part of the reason we get along so well.

But now that I’ve returned to the ranks of anonymity, he’s having to shoulder the local celebrity burden alone while I (with great relief- I’m kind of shy and have had to fake exuberance for many years) watch from the sidelines.

For the most part, his fame is a good thing. We get great service wherever we go, which really comes in handy when we need car or house repairs and can depend on reliable estimates. We get free tickets to just about everything that comes to town.

But there’s a downside. Everywhere we go, people want to talk. Really talk. And they think that since they know him, he must know them, too. So they assume he wants to know all about how their kids, their wife, and their second cousins are doing. This can be an issue when we’re late for an appointment or we’re leaving church and I’m holding our squirmy toddler or we’re in the midst of a heated discussion about, say, whether or not I have a secret crush on Johnny Depp.

Mostly, though, his public popularity is just an opportunity for extra weirdness- something we generally enjoy.

When we moved to our neighborhood, the prior owners of our home let everyone know we were coming. So we’ve quickly grown used to random visitors appearing at the front door with “story ideas.” Sometimes, however, the visitors get a little freaky.

One week, Hubs was weeding the mailbox planter when a rather large, heavyset man drove up in a pickup truck.

“You didn’t hear this from me,” he said by way of an introduction, “but the mayor is missing $10,000 from the city beautification account (details have been changed to protect the, um, guilty). But you didn’t hear it from me!”

“Who are you?” my husband said.

“I live in your neighborhood. And that’s all I want to say right now,” the man blustered. “Just tell them a little bird told you.”

My husband paused for a moment. “Well, can I at least tell them a big bird told me?” he asked, straight faced.

“Just don’t use my name!” he shouted, driving away.

“I don’t know your name,” my husband called out after him.

Perhaps the most interesting phenomenon is that my husband’s most devoted fan base seems to consist primarily of women. Everywhere we go, they turn up, oohing and aahing, taking his arm and asking to feel his muscles, simpering and giggling and flushing at every word he utters. I’d be offended if it weren’t for the fact that every one of these women qualifies for an AARP discount. I suppose Hubs has that World War II-era manly-man look that really turns these women on. And they show their affection in the most surprising ways.

One night as we waited to be seated at the local Mexican restaurant, a grandmotherly woman behind us took my husband’s arm and said coyly, “I know who you are.” I yawned as Hubs turned on his high beam grin. These are the moments that feed his ego so that I don’t have to.

“Yes, I know who you are,” she repeated, slapping him on the back. And then she slapped him on the back again. And again. And again. And again. It was like she was beating a back drum. She laughed and her husband laughed and Hubs laughed in confusion and I… well, I think I actually started snorting. The impromptu massage from our elderly Helga continued a good thirty seconds until our names were mercifully called.

“That was weird,” Hubs whispered as we ran to our table.

Yes, weird is what our lives are all about.

Overall, it makes life far more entertaining. I can enjoy the benefits of the spotlight without having to actually step within it, we never have to worry about paparazzi and when we do get our pictures taken, we enjoy obsessing about where they’ll show up and whether or not we’ll look fat. Best of all, when we leave town, we’re pretty much unknown and free to behave however we want.

And that means when an old lady makes a pass at my old man, I can tell her to take a hike.