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Broke Wife, Big City
I know how this
ends
By Aprill Brandon
Despite the fact that I’ve pretty much made a career out of
complaining, I must confess that lately things have been going well. My
preschooler is slowly realizing that preschool won’t kill him. My
2-year-old has yet to burn down the house or train the dog to do her
nefarious bidding. My husband and I are going strong, united in love
and mutual exhaustion.
Financially we started from the bottom and now we’re here, the stage
where we can afford name brand mustard again. My self-esteem is at an
all-time medium. And I’m even able to carve out time for my hobbies,
like running and pretending to write while really just daydreaming
about the speech I’ll make when I win a Pulitzer.
Yes, despite the natural stress that comes from working and trying to
raise a family, life is pretty damn good currently.
Which is why, naturally, I keep waiting for something bad to happen.
Look, I know how this plays out. I’ve seen how this movie goes, how
this TV episode is scripted. If an unhealthy amount of binge-watching
TV has taught me anything, it is that happiness is suspect. Your life
will ruined if you are too content. So, when I step outside myself and
look down at my happy little family, doing our happy little thing, I
can’t help but wait for the ominous music to start.
Observe, if you will, this montage of tender moments: The mom singing
the baby to sleep. The older son giggling as he’s tossed into the air.
A goofy dance party in pajamas. The parents throwing up a cheers with
glasses of wine after the children have finally gone to bed.
You know who else sees this montage? The serial killer watching us
menacingly from the window. And as I go into the kitchen to get more
wine, HE SLASHES MY THROAT.
Crazy, you say? Far-fetched? Eh, you’re probably right. It’s actually
much more likely that I’m hanging out at the playground with my mom
friends and suddenly there is a natural disaster. POSSIBLY FILLED WITH
SHARKS.
And then, on the slim chance that my kids and I are the main stars and
thus the only ones to make it out alive from the shark tsunami, one of
them is likely to get kidnapped on our walk home when I bend down to
tie what is left of my shoe. And I know exactly who did it too. It was
the quiet neighbor who lost her baby years ago and was driven mad by
the loss and now wants TO RAISE MY CHILD AS HERS.
Or, you know, it could be a vampire.
Although, to fair, it’s equally likely that I’ll be the one attacked by
the vampire, seeing as how they can’t resist a lone female jogger.
Sometimes I even look over at my husband suspiciously. He’s so loving.
So patient. So forgiving of all my faults. Because, and here comes the
shocking ending, HE WAS THE SERIAL KILLER LOOKING AT US FROM THE WINDOW
ALL ALONG. Any day now I know I’m going to stumble upon his collection
of severed heads in some long neglected corner of our house.
(Although I’m pretty sure if he IS a serial killer, he is one of those
serial killers who only kills other serial killers. So, like, we can
probably still make this work).
(Unless he does slash my throat in the kitchen because it turns out I
have a split personality and UNKNOWN TO ME, MY OTHER PERSONALITY IS A
SERIAL KILLER.)
Ridiculous? Sure. I know it is. But I can’t help but feeling I am
somehow undeserving of all this happiness. Life doesn’t work this way.
I am dangerously close to having it all. Who gets everything they ever
wanted?
Murder victims on crime dramas, that’s who. They’re all perfectly happy
until, you know, they’re dead.
Which is why I find myself looking lovingly down at my wedding ring and
then I immediately look up, panicked, waiting for the inevitable phone
call telling me my entire family has died in a suspicious car crash.
I guess I’ll just have to take solace in the fact that the tragedy is
likely to turn me into a heroic vigilante, hellbent on avenging their
deaths.
Or, you know, maybe I could turn the TV off every once in awhile and
just enjoy my life.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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