The wife of a reporter learns to adapt in many ways. She gets accustomed to him working weekends. She pleasantly pauses their movie when his phone rings. She never expects him home on time. She accepts that her reputation is tied to how the public feels about the fairness of his articles today. She stops asking what his hate mail says.
I imagine it’s an awful lot like being married to a politician.
Perhaps that intimidating parallel is why I started out less patient. From the sarcastic: “You’re waiting to hear from who? No, it’s okay. I’m sure her opinion on today’s rain is the difference between biased and objective reporting.” To the callous: “Is your article going to include why I should care that this stranger is dead?”
Well, 7 is the new 5:00.
I’m better now. That might have something to do with the fact that I’m employed. Most of my infractions occurred during the pre-locating-work stage and were the mad rants of a woman starved for companionship. I now possess a graceful smile that I call “It’s okay that you’re busy.” And I use it sincerely – I wouldn’t want him to rush because I pressured him.
But sometimes I suspect he takes advantage of his unpredictable job. Like when I ask him to meet me at the garden after work…and I end up weeding alone. Or when he picks me up minutes too late for the community event I want to attend. Or when we need to do a grocery run and he arrives home precisely as I return from shopping. [Note to all husbands: “I’m sorry” might cover everything from absent-mindedness to infidelity but it does not cover Wal-Mart!]
I told him my next husband wouldn’t be a reporter. He didn’t think it was funny.