The ridiculous thing about us middle-aged married men is that we still think of ourselves as romantic heroes long past the time when life ought to have disabused us of the notion.
Our self-aggrandizements and self-infatuations differ in kind and in degrees of crudeness, sophistication, vanity, narcissism, and actual self-awareness. Some of us dream we are sports heroes. Some of us dream we are rock stars. Some of us are adventurers and explorers. Some of us are great artists. Some of us are swashbucklers. Some of us are even criminals. Whatever type of hero we think we are, we are all young, strong, good looking, and admired and adored by gangs of brave men and beautiful women.
Think we are?
Know we are. Feel in our hearts and in our bones we are. In moments of reverie we feel ready. It’s as if we are about to begin a new adventure, take on new challenge.
Then our wives enter the room and, without even intending it or being aware they are doing it, they remind us we’re not heroes.
We’re just guys who forgot to take out the trash.