You must excuse me if this column seems a little discombobulated. Our old computer now sits on a new desk in the backroom we call our office. The desk is huge. The computer seems so far away it might as well be in another room, maybe another house. I’m not certain what I’m thinking is what I’m typing.
The new desk was my wife’s idea. Am I unappreciative? I’ll let you be the judge.
It all started the day my wife discovered the old desk was too small. To be honest, it was always cluttered. Wives hate clutter. As all wives do, mine asked my opinion. As all husbands do, I nodded, thinking we could pass on to more important subjects, such as how the Eagles were turning every opposing running back into Gayle Sayers. My wife pressed me. Did I really agree the desk needed replacing? Or was I just going along to shut her up?
There are two ways I could have answered that question. Admitting I hadn’t been paying attention to the original question wasn’t really an option. Wives are all too aware of the short-attention spans of their husbands and always ready to link the character flaw with the tendency to hog the TV remote. I opted, instead, for honesty because, as my sainted mother once said, "Truth is always the best policy." Except that it isn’t.
"I hadn’t noticed the inadequacy of the desk" is what I wound up saying. My problem, as my wife sees it, is I never notice much of anything. (Except tight jeans on 20-something women that occasionally stroll into view.)
Let’s be candid. I had noticed the gathering clutter, but was afraid to admit it didn’t bother me. In fact, I find a little clutter strangely comforting. I knew where everything was — receipts, paper clips, computer, photos of my grandkids. True, I might have to search a little, but that’s when I call my wife to help me. Isn’t it part of a spouse’s function to help her partner find stuff? Not surprisingly, my wife doesn’t think so. She claims she can hear my panicky voice in her sleep, calling her name.
The conversation about a new desk ended. Weeks went by, it seemed. Then my wife caught me in a weak moment. (Wives are experts at seizing upon these, much like a shark when it senses a helpless prey.) She claims showing me a picture of the new desk she was about to order and discussed the price with me. I can’t admit I remember no such thing. Not remembering is as much a sin as not noticing, not hearing and certainly not caring.
The next thing I knew, a man arrived and removed my old desk. He then banged away in our office for the rest of the day. What kind of desk was this? I soon found out.
When I came home from work that night, my wife seemed very happy. "Go upstairs and see our new desk," she said.
The room is small. It used to be our daughter’s bedroom until she moved out, supposedly to get married, but I believe claustrophobia had something to do with it. Sitting there was a magnificent desk stretching from one wall to the other. George W. Bush could have landed in his Top-Gun outfit on the top of it. If the Sierra Club ever found out how many trees were killed to make this desk, they’d revoke my membership.
As far as the cost, let me put it this way: It could have gone a long way toward a nice-sized plasma TV. My wife believes our living room is too small to house a big-screen TV. Apparently, the same sense of proportion does not apply to desks.
I often go into the backroom and stare at the size of the desk. Mike Wallace doesn’t have a desk like this. The vastness reminds me of the plains in some John Ford movie. John Wayne is going to ride out from behind my computer. There isn’t any clutter — though I am working on it. I may actually have to import clutter from someone else’s workspace.
When I reach into a drawer for an envelope, it’s not there. I frantically search all the desk drawers. Still nothing. That’s when I call for my wife.
