A Look on the Lighter Side: I married a scapegoat; he did, too

Judy Epstein

Some people marry for money, and others for love, but here’s what I married for: I married so I’d have someone else to blame when things went wrong.

Miss paying a bill?  “My husband must have forgotten.”

Lose your friend’s library book?  “I lent it to my husband, and he can’t think where he put it.”

Can’t stand hosting Thanksgiving for one more year?  “My husband put his foot down, I’m afraid.”

Somehow it’s all so much easier when the foibles belong to someone else.

I started small.

One day, years ago, I brought home a weird-colored squash.  It seemed like a good idea:  all by itself, it took care of at least three of our  “five colors a day” regimen.

Plus, surely, it was chock-full of anti-oxidants!

Only thing was — once I got it home, I realized that  a.) I had no idea how to cook it, and  b.) even if I did, my boyfriend (who became my husband) would never eat it.

It was just a big, colorful waste of money.  But what could I do?

With no clear idea, I took it back to the store.  I meant to ask how I should cook the thing — but the manager spoke up first: “Sent your husband shopping, eh? That’ll teach you.

They always bring home the weirdest things.  Just sign here.” And I was out the door clutching cold, hard cash.

Then a friend whose wedding I had just attended told me how she got a whole sterling silver service replaced, after she’d ruined it in the dishwasher.  “It was the hot-line operator,” my friend told me. “She said, ‘Don’t tell me – your husband put it in the dishwasher, didn’t he?’ ”

“So I didn’t tell her,” finished my friend.  Of course not — not with 72 pieces of sterling at stake!

A few years ago, these stories came back to me.  (I was still young enough, then, that memories came back in time to be useful, instead of right after they could do any good.)

I had gone a bit crazy, choosing fixtures for a bathroom re-do.

As soon as I got home, I realized I had ordered a completely ridiculous hand-held shower spray, with knobs I would never figure out, and which my boys were simply going to use for epic water-battles, soaking everything in sight.

But the bill clearly said at the bottom, “All Sales Final.” What could I do?

I didn’t even have to fake the distress in my voice, as I called the store.

“My husband made me call you,”  I lied.  “He says I got the wrong things, and that I should have bought the Spartan Spa Set, instead.”

“No problem,” said the salesman.  “This happens all the time. Just bring your receipt and pick what he wants from the catalog.”

This blame-the-husband thing is so handy, I don’t know how I ever managed without it.

If I were still single, I think I’d make up a husband — like an imaginary friend — just to blame things on.

“Give to your political group?  My husband would never forgive me.”

“Host the book club?  I’m afraid I can’t — my husband wouldn’t like it.”

“Come to reunion?  I’d love to, but my husband just can’t abide them.”

Of course, my husband is nothing like the ogre I paint him.  I even began to wonder if maybe I’d gone a little too far, and word of my “fibs” had started getting back to him… because the people at the company picnic a few years ago were acting strangely, staring from me to him as if one of us might explode any minute.  Then again, maybe it was just the weather, as thunder-clouds built up in the sky.

“Are you okay?” one of his colleagues asked me.

“Sure, fine.  Why do you ask?”

“Don’t worry —  your husband’s explained it all, and we understand, even if it does mean we can’t send him to the Florida office.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s told us how hysterical you get at just the thought of his being trapped there, during hurricane season. We understand, you can’t help how it affects you.”

Ha!  I wanted to say.  It’s more like he’s the one who gets hysterical, at the very thought of being sent to a place with 100 percent humidity!

I had no idea I had such an impact on him.

But at least now I know we have something in common.

It turns out, having a scapegoat is why my husband got married, too.

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