Mack Daddy vs. Freaky PolygamistsSep 09
Mack doesn’t know about you, but the Daddy’s still kind of freaked out, still got the heebie-jeebies about that polygamy sect raided in Texas. First, there was the compound itself:
Freaky! Looks like headquarters of the alien takeover of Planet Earth. And there is probably a honeycomb of tunnels underneath it.
Then there were the women that emerged from it:
Creepy! Invasion of the body-snatching unibrowed Amish Stepford Wives! Yeee-ipes!
Apparently they never cut their hair, they just roll it up like that, because they plan to use it one day to wash the feet of Christ.
Wacky! And they dress like that because they want to look as similar as possible, because the husband-figure bounces from one to the next and they don’t want to seem too different from one another. Or something…
Nutty! Mack cannot help but wonder: If they’re all exactly the same, what’s the point?
But then a thought occurred to the Daddy. Maybe it’s those freaky women who secretly love it. Women these days are always complaining what big babies men are, how high maintenance their husbands are, etc: maybe it’s a relief to the polygamists’ numerous wives only to have to deal with the husband’s issues say, 1/10th of the time.
The Mack also found himself musing upon whether the women compare notes…sexually? Of course they do! Sexually and on every other front! Wife #1: “He’s been really gassy lately, have you noticed?” Wife #2: “I know, it’s gross.” Wife #3: “We’ve got to change his diet.” Wife #4: “He needs to eat more greens,” etc.
And I wonder if there are any nights when they all have a headache. That’d be frustrating. Or maybe a relief.
Who knows? Mack Daddy doesn’t understand polygamy. Mack believes you should choose one woman wisely, then stick with her long as you can.
It’s very important to choose carefully in the first place, the Daddy believes: measure twice, cut once, as tailors say.
And of course, luck is involved. Luck is a huge factor. When people asked Calvin Trillin, author of About Alice– a description of his marriage (which he wrote after his wife’s death) so touching hardened New Yorkers would hand it to total strangers on the subway-what his secret was for staying happily married so long, he would simply say: “I wandered into the right party.”
(In his case a Greenwich Village boho mingler at which jazz probably featured in the background.)
He was lucky to meet the right woman in the first place, in other words.
I was lucky too. I was extremely fortunate to wander into a particular book-launch where I was thunderstruck by the hypnotic beauty of the woman who would later become Mrs. Daddy.
She was wearing a floral dress, and standing shyly by the canapes. Her hair was slicked back, giving her a sort of feral, predatory look. “Cha-a-a-rge!” the Daddy’s DNA commanded, and I took a run at her with steam coming out of my ears, and collar, and invisible dry-ice machines secreted in various locations around the room.
I did not care whether she was a woman of virtue, character, common sense– but when the dry ice cleared, and it turned out she was-well, it was very lucky for the Daddy.
You too, my bloggies, I hope such luck for you. I know it doesn’t work out a lot of the time, it can all end in tears, custody battles, etc.
But when it does work, it’s a beautiful thing.
Best of luck. Pay no attention to freaky polygamist sects. Look for that one perfect pearl. In matters of love, the Daddy firmly believes: it’s quality over quantity.