Her: “You hate me because you think I’m fat, don’t you.”
Me: (Grinning because the previous statement is completely ridiculous) “What? That is a ridiculous statement.”
Her: “Oh! Then why do you have a guilty dimple?”
Me: “Because your statement is completely ridiculous and I’m laughing.”
Her: “But you never said you didn’t hate me or think I’m fat.”
It’s an argument I can’t win.
My so-called “guilty-dimple” has become a curse. (Before my “guilty dimple” became a mechanism for her to assume I was lying, I thought it just made me look cute.)
Combine my “guilty dimple” with the fact that I do not like family functions and her distrust for my truthfulness is magnified. I wish I were a social butterfly, but I hate attending any and all social functions. I attend because it is my duty and my wife says I have to go. Once I’m there I’m usually okay, but getting me out the door can be a challenge. It isn't just her family's get-togethers that I do not want to be at – I’m an equal opportunity family offender – I do not like going to my own family’s get-togethers either.
We spend every Christmas Eve with her family and a few years ago I woke up to find I was near death’s door with an illness. (Maybe not at death’s door, but it felt like I was on the same block. Yes, men are babies when it comes to being sick.) My loving wife thought I was faking being sick to avoid spending Christmas Eve with her family. While I won’t deny the thought of faking a sickness has crossed my mind to get out of a family get-together, I was definitely not faking. My wife didn’t believe me.
As I lay in bed burning up with fever and only opening my eyes when the light at the end of the tunnel became too bright to bear, I could hear my wife in a condescending tone say, “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” She never said it, but I could tell she thought I was lying. I was amazed at her tenacity as her assumption was made even without benefit of a “guilty dimple.”
As I lay in bed and my wife and kids were 20 miles away, my wife’s disappointment lay heavy upon my chest. I dearly wanted to make her smile on the holiest of nights. (Not really! I wanted to prove I was sick.) I finally mustered enough strength to drive to my in-laws’ house. Thirty-minutes later I was headed back home, but I did leave them a present on their lawn as I headed back to my car. Unfortunately, my wife wasn’t outside to be a witness.
It took another 24 hours before she finally believed I was sick. On Christmas Day I woke up feeling much better, which was good because we were leaving for Florida. We planned to stop in Atlanta so the kids could swim in the hotel’s pool. As we were getting ready for bed, the girls suddenly came down with the same symptoms I had the previous day. Finally, proof that I was not faking. A few days after we arrived, the girls and I were enjoying the sunshine and warmth Florida had to offer while my wife lay sick in bed. Even though the urge to say, “I told you so” filled my soul I was able to refrain. I quietly celebrated with ice cream. I offered some to my wife, but she shot me an evil glare. I flashed her my “guilty dimple.”