Will the real trophy wife please stand up?

by Susan Corpany

My husband Thom’s 30-year high school class reunion was approaching. He politely
informed me that I had a mere four months to be in trophy wife shape. I corrected his
misconception. “No, that’s not how it works. This is your reunion. You’re the one who has to
lose weight. I’ll lose weight for my reunion. I don’t know these people and I don’t care what they
think about me.”

Still, the countdown continued. “Three more months to be in trophy wife condition.” I dug out my Weight Watchers literature from my last join-up.

“Two months until the reunion.” I took the dog on a couple of extra-long walks. He lost
three pounds.

“The reunion is next month.”

“I know how I can lose 246 pounds real fast.”

The class reunion of a spouse is boring and annoying, even for an extrovert like me.

“So you’re Thom’s wife.”

“Yes, last time I checked.”

“So you’re Thom’s wife.”

The only thing that gave some variety was the occasional confused look I would
get. “Your name is Susan, right? I remember you differently.”

“Yes, I’m Susan and no, I’m not Susan. Thom’s first wife died.”

“And he married another Susan?”

I extended my hand. “There were a lot of us born during the 50s. Yes, I’m Susan, the
Sequel.”

“Is it true the sequel is never as good as the original?”

“Check with Thom on that. I can’t write my own review. But I thought Toy Story II was
pretty good.”

I was the non-classmate spouse at a school reunion. Nobody truly cared who I was, and I
didn’t care that they didn’t care. Thom had a good time and that was all that mattered.

A few weeks later I was running errands with my youngest stepson, Christopher.
Dinnertime was approaching. I pulled into Pizza Hut. We ducked inside out of the rain. “Do you
want pepperoni and black olive or . . .”

I turned around to ask Chris what toppings he thought we should get and found him
talking to someone. “This is my band teacher from last year.”

I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“And this,” I heard Chris say “is my dad’s new trophy wife.” In one glance Mr. Band
Teacher took in my rain-soaked matted-down hair, make-up-free face, damp t-shirt and well-
worn jeans. I saw a smirk playing about his lips. I smiled back and gave Chris something the
people in Hawaii call “stink eye.” I searched my hard drive for something clever to say but came
up blank.

Pizzas may only take a half hour but snappy comebacks take four to six hours.