The Widowmaker

For most of us, reciting the vow "until death do us part" is a romantic and binding gesture of love, but for some it has a more sinister appeal. These are the Gladiators... poised in the marital arena waiting for the Emperor to cry out, "TO THE DEATH!".

My wife, Cristy, works out 6 days a week religiously. She runs on a machine that strengthens her heart, she lifts weights, she can drop and do 100 pushups without breaking a sweat. She emerged from her personal gym one morning with her arm cocked up by her head and said to me, "Look at this bicep!". It was somewhere between Michelle Obama's arms and Lou Ferrigno's thighs.

She eats well too. Organic stuff; no chemicals, no hormones, no cured meats. Her diet lacks the artificial ingredients, fillers, and sweeteners the rest of us call food. She makes "chips" out of Kale (lettucey type stuff) that can only really be appreciated by someone who hasn't had an actual potato chip in years.

Her primary goal, I believe, is to get rid of me. She's too smart to bump me off now, my untimely death would raise suspicion. No... her quest to make herself a widow is a deviously calculated plan to outlive me.

The odds are already stacked in her favor; I am four years further down life's road than Cristy and, as a man, I'm not expected to celebrate birthdays the average woman will. However, she is not taking any chances... her current trajectory should land her in the grave a good 30 years after me.

That's three decades of unattached freedom. Just imagine how many times in all those years the toilet seat won't get left up. And once I'm finally out of the picture she'll be able to relax on her bus rides home from Knitting Club, content in knowing that when she gets back to her small, cat-filled apartment she won't need to worry about washing anyone else's underwear.

Ah, the life of a single gal.