Here's an insight into the genius of the child bride that I only just cottoned to last night:
Seemingly at random, Rachel will posit the "When You're Famous" scenario, in which she makes me promise not to run off with one of the thousands of beautiful young women who will throw themselves at me when I finally stop failing in life. Most often this magical reversal in the way the universe works comes as a result of my finally selling a novel, but she'll work it to fit most situations -- the most obtuse being that women in Wales will fling themselves at me just because I'm, uhm, me.
These theories are inherently flawed, of course.
Ignoring the fact that I actually love my wife, and our (almost) seven years of marriage is due to slightly more than the luck of no one else taking an interest in me, it has to be pointed out that in (almost) seven years of marriage not one other woman has taken an interest in me. My aesthetic challenges, brash nature, and increasing age don't exactly set me out as Sexiest Man Alive. Add to this the fact that being married is a part of my persona; if my life were an episode of "Happy Days," the child bride would be the Fonz, and what the hell is "Happy Days" without the Fonz?
Oh, and I have no money.
It's possible fame could bring wealth -- which, they say, impresses some ladies -- but I doubt fame would overcome my other negative qualities, and the odds of fame that brings wealth touching me are absurdly low. If I achieve fame, it will be on the level of Crispus Attucks, who is essentially famous for getting shot: I'll find myself in a Welsh-language rally, somehow get cracked in the skull, and someone will mention me in a folk song. If Meinir Gwilym sings that song, it will be the closest I'll ever get to my wife's "When You're Famous" scenario.
Regardless, she was at it again last night: "I want you to remember that we had this conversation... When they start twirling their hair at you and putting their hands all over you and giggling at all your little jokes, you remember that we had this conversation."
It took me several hours to recover from such happy images, but when I woke up this morning, I was struck by the timing of Rachel's admonition. I have been in a pissy mood all week for a number of reasons, not least of which the dilemma of finding someone to own me so I can go to university; I have been making myself sick with it. How convenient that she would derail my misery by scolding me over some ridiculous impossibility. Instead of thinking about money, I was thinking: "Me! Like Tom Jones on the cover of his 'Live from Caesar's Palace' album! Hee-hee!"
My wife is brilliant.
I was thinking this morning about the fact that every time a tragedy occurs, some religious extremist will claim that God is responsible and He is punishing us. Probably the most obtuse example of this thinking are those assclowns who think God kills U.S. military personnel because they fight for a country that tolerates homosexuality.
It's amusing that people seem to think that the Creator of the Universe* would be such a horrible communicator, that His infraction-punishment relationship would be so disproportionate and difficult to understand: "I, the Lord Your God, am angered that Leah Grefty, of Hiteman, Iowa, drove home drunk last night, so I am going to sink a boat in Bahrain. That'll show her."
*Slightly related: my favorite name for God is the Welsh use of "Bod Mawr," which literally translates to "Big Being," with "being" serving as a verb.