An emperor of some sub-state of India back in the day built the Taj Mahal as the tomb site for and in honor of his favorite wife named someone-or-other Mahal.
I learned that on Jeopardy.
My garish lack of detail and the flippant use of favorite brings me to the following:
One-Jeopardy moves really fast, but 1/6th of the time I totally nail it.
Two-I’ve always had a curiosity about having sister wives, except with lots of stipulations about their cooking abilities and that they generally looked like an Oompa Loompa.
Three-It’s been years since I binged all of Big Love, back then I used to put myself in the shoes of the young beautiful wife who had the most gorgeous of the babies and drove Bill wild with a simple glance. As my years tick by, and these wildly hypothetical situations arise, I see myself more as the original, oldest wife. She was composed, rooted in her love for her husband, above petty jealousy. Okay, so maybe I’m elevated these days in most areas save matters of the heart. But hey, I’d burn every ounce of that young beautiful woman and every other potential young beautiful woman to the ground and then rub the ashes across my face like war paint, I mean… if I were Barb.
Four-Really what Barb, Mrs.Mahal and every other wise women in all of history and modernity know is that it’s never the other women. (Save all the implications of vastly different cultures and social norms, that’s not the kinda thing that I’m writing here, this time around).
Five- Once Stacey said to me, that she had found the fallacy of long-term committed romantic relationship. It’s simply that we put too much pressure on our significant other to be everything that we need. When really what we need is a community. She’s right.
Still, I keep a ledger of all the ways that we’re keeping pace for favorite, or not. Hard to shake what you grew up on.