By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
My dear wife Vicki is one of the kindest persons I know. That’s why I scratch my head trying to figure out why she sets traps for me. Nothing dangerous mind you, but traps nonetheless.
My bloodline is not adept at evading traps, even rather obvious ones. For example, when walking through a wide archway or portal, we O’Briens often inexplicably veer left or right and clip the sidewall with a shoulder or hip. Moreover, our toes are quite skilled at locating and smacking into table and chair legs no matter how far underneath the furniture.
My mother once fell into a foot-deep sidewalk gutter while trying to hurdle it when she was running late for morning Mass. (Yes, she still went to church.) My graceful daughter (a trained dancer) walked through a closed screen door. My other daughter (also a graceful dancer) entered the school musical concussion protocol after she forgot to duck while dashing under a prop.
Sometimes I wonder if my good wife has sensed this genetic kryptonite within me, and may be probing and testing it, to understand its risks, limits, and possible uses.
It all started with visors, the ones in cars that shade your eyes from glare while you are driving. Vicki stores mail, paper receipts, work memos, and various other items there. She does this both in her car and my car. I never do it and always forget she does.
Inevitably, while driving along on a sunny day, I will squint and reach for my visor to put it to the manufacturer’s intended use. A surprising and distracting vehicular confetti shower ensues.
One night Vicki perched a wine glass on the edge of the sink. After thirty plus years of marriage, she had to know that at some point I would flail my arms around after visiting the sink and send the goblet soaring to the floor. Afterwards I dealt with the clever trap within a trap…finding glass shrapnel with bare feet.
Late one evening after a big family dinner, I opened the refrigerator and heard a rumbling sliding noise inside. Something whizzed by my leftside peripheral vision. It was a half-eaten apple pie. For the life of me, I cannot figure out how Vicki set up the sensitive trigger mechanism needed for that trap.
Vicki saves her most frequent ambushes, however, for late at night. She understands that sometime between the bladder bewitching hours of 2:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. my six-decades-old body will force me to visit to the bathroom. These are particularly vulnerable moments.
My goal during late night bathroom trips is to wake up as little as possible. One should only be as awake as is needed to safely reach the bathroom and do one’s business with little or no noise or splatter. This tactic enhances my chances of falling right back asleep when the job is done.
Perhaps from surreptitious observation and intelligence gathering, my clever wife seems to understand all of this. She also seems have mapped out all my typical restroom migration routes. As a result, on these nocturnal pathways, I often encounter little piles of laundry. Nothing substantial, mind you, typically just a sweatshirt or two or maybe some yoga pants and a rolled up pair of jeans.
The effect is nearly catastrophic. I have avoided—but just barely—spectacular sleepwalking somersaults and cascading catatonic cartwheels that would strike fear into the heart of even the most accomplished and wide-awake Olympics gymnast.
There is another unpleasant side effect too. These traps are adrenalin-inducing. This natural hormonal reaction tends to wake me up and greatly inhibits my goal of relieving myself while still in a somewhat pleasant stupor.
Once I stumble upon them during ingress, I try to avoid the floor laundry traps by using an alternative route back to the bed. This revised approach markedly increases the chances of a painful collision with the sturdy wooden bed frame that surrounds our box spring. And yes, Vicki picked out that bed frame too.
As you can see, just like poor Ulysses in Homer’s Odyssey, on some nights I must choose between domestic versions of Scylla and Charybdis. And the third available option—not visiting the bathroom at all at night—includes its own set of mythical terrors.
Vicki tells me these traps are mere coincidences. I have no proof to the contrary and no evidence of any sinister intent. So what is the motive?
She cannot be doing it for amusement. She usually is not there (conveniently) or is asleep when these traps are sprung. Perhaps some of the traps are a punishment for my snoring? She does not seem that vindictive (and she sometimes snores too).
I do have a double indemnity life insurance policy that pays out handsomely upon my accidental death. Preacher Billy Graham’s wife once was asked if she ever considering leaving her famous husband. Ruth Graham responded, “Divorce? No. Murder? Yes.” None of Vicki’s traps are life-threatening…yet.
Is it possible that there is a benign or helpful motive at play? I think so.
Vicki has read about medical studies that indicate the risk of many forms of old man dementia can be reduced by solving challenging problems, puzzles, or games. The problem with this theory is that I rarely solve, and almost always fall into, all of these late night puzzles/traps, making their long term mental health benefits questionable. Yet, Vicki keeps trying.
It’s just like how Cato, the good friend of Jacques Clouseau in The Pink Panther films, constantly attacks the police inspector to keep him ever alert and on his toes. Good thing I watched all those old Peter Sellers movies when I was a kid. Eternal vigilance is the price one pays for marriage to a kind person like Vicki, but it’s worth every minute.
*Mike O’Brien (author website here) is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. His book Monastery Mornings (found here), about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah, was published by Paraclete Press (more information here) in August 2021.
