DEBBIE DOESN'T DO DALLAS

I've been married for thirty-five years. My wife and I met in college, dated for about four years and tied the knot when we were still in our early twenties.

Debbie Digby

We have a pretty decent relationship. We don't fight like my sister does with her husband. Hell, I really can't remember the last time we had an argument. We communicate pretty well though I wouldn't call my wife my best friend or anything like that. She's a woman and she's interested in things I don't really care much about.

Like celebrity magazines, nail polish, shoes, calories, George Cloony, classic rock, online shopping, offline shopping, her mom, her brother, snack foods, Netflix, cats, exercise, Downton Abbey, global warming, and re-upholstery.

And being a man, I'm interested in things that are totally off her radar like the Ayatollah Khamenei, the designated hitter rule, Japanese knives, liquor, the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle, biographies of former presidents, the Russian Mafia, Election Day, band-saws, golf and old Clifford Brown records.

Oh yeah ... and sex.

The wife will have nothing of it. It's been like that for years.

More years than I care to count.

Trying to have sex with her was like trying to talk my parents into raising my allowance. I remember my dad was always ready with a list of reasons why my allowance should stay the same: I had to learn the value of a dollar, I needed to develop a strong work ethic, I didn't need the extra money, I was a lazy son-of-a-gun etc. etc.

He always had a reason but the truth was he simply didn't want to do it.

Just like Debbie. 

She'd rather not.

I've always been a good husband so I never went too far off the reservation. When I had an itch, well ... let's just say, like Jimmy Carter I knew how to daydream.

And the wife, well, I never asked. Some things are better left alone.

Yeah ... alone.

Does anyone remember Ginger on Gilligan's Island?