After being wed only a few short weeks and still enjoying matrimonial bliss, FringeMan made the mistake that would end all joy and rock our united world.
It was under warm covers layered in love that FringMan rolled toward me, arms outstretched and sleep still gluing his eyes shut. Huskily he murmured “Cynthia” while running his hand up into my hair.
“CYNTHIA!” I screamed jumping up fully awake. My blood pressure probably caused once sleeping vessels to pop in my head.
FringeMan, no longer asleep and wishing this were a dream, knew he was as dead as the animals he hunted.
“Did I call you Cynthia?” He asked shaking the fog from his brain and trying to make sense of his words.
“WHO IS CYNTHIA?” I demanded in a less than forgiving tone our neighbors clearly heard.
A young bride should NEVER wake up to murmurs of another woman’s name.
Take Note men, Do Not Call Your Wife By Another Name…NEVER!
It should be built into wedding vows…”I John Smith do solemnly swear never to call you, my beloved, by another woman’s name. If I momentarily forget your name due to a psychotic episode, I will substitute your name with Love, Darling, or Luscious Lips. Another woman’s name will never enter my imagination. All risk of this name sliding through my brain shaft and out the portal of my mouth will be eliminated.”
Our Wedding didn’t include customized vows. A mistake I live to regret.
FringeMan’s hair-brained response to his almost adulterous blunder was so bizarre I actually felt momentary sadness at his dim morning wit.
“I was dreaming that you hyphenated your name [a threat I consistently left hanging in the air with the dark clouds] like Hilary Rodham-Clinton. You know how mad that would make me? Well, we got our new checks in the mail and when I opened the package, the checks were printed ‘Cynthia Ferreira-Gillepsie’. It was all because of my dream!” So said FringeMan.
After much grovelling, coaxing, tears, marriage counseling, chocolate, spontaneous gifts, flowers, statements filled with undying devotion, begging, apologizing, and convincing on FringeMan’s part, I finally found it in my heart to forgive this gargantuan mistake.
Cynthia’s are not allowed in our home – still. If your name is Cynthia, don’t tell me. I’ll probably hate you by association, imaginary or otherwise.
He no longer utters words of endearment in the morning. Always better to be safe than sorry. We’re both happier that way.