Da Wife

My wife (Her Majesty) and I, you see, share a passion for philanthropy – or, more accurately, we shared a charity. And on this particular day, a day so monumentally important it practically had its own theme music, we were slated to receive a donation so grand, it could’ve financed a small nation. We’re talking about a check, not just a check, but The Check, a monstrous 6-foot by 3-foot behemoth, destined to be presented in the baggage claim of an airport so top-secret, Her Majesty herself forbade me from naming it.

The photo op was epic. Our esteemed president on one end, the benevolent donor on the other, both wrestling with this plywood-sized declaration of wealth, flashing smiles wider than the check itself. Cameras flashed like paparazzi at a royal wedding. Then, with the ceremonial duties complete, we migrated towards the gate, ready to wave off the ultimate recipients of this magnificent generosity.

Her Majesty was then given the solemn, sacred, and entirely explicit duty of being the guardian of this massive display of currency. "Do NOT let it leave your side," they practically chanted. I glanced from the ludicrously oversized check to Her Majesty, and a little voice inside my head – the same one that usually predicts traffic jams and bad puns – whispered "Oh, this is going to end gloriously."

Fast forward to the gate. Everyone’s buzzing, the recipients are about to board, and naturally, someone suggests a few more celebratory snaps. Our president, beaming turns to my wife and chirps "where's the check?"And that's when it happened.

She blinks. A moment of pure, unadulterated blankness. Then with a voice that could curdle milk, she asks, "Check? What check?"

The air instantly froze. All 58 pairs of eyes – every single one of them, I swear to God – swiveled in perfect, terrifying unison towards her. My wife’s face, which seconds before had been serenely oblivious, contorted into a mask of pure, unholy horror. She looked at me, her eyes pleading, accusing, terrified.

I, in turn, performed my signature move: the dramatic head-slap. My hand connected with my forehead with a resounding thwack, my head bowed in silent shame, and then I began to shake it from side to side, a silent, theatrical "nooooooooooo."

Then as if she’d just remembered she was in a Wes Anderson film and had an important symmetrical sprint to execute, she pivoted on her heels and bolted. Like a woman possessed by the spirit of a forgotten lottery ticket, she was gone. Where she was going, no one knew. I just knew she wasn't thinking straight because she blew right past the people mover. The people mover, folks. That’s a sign of a truly desperate dash.

Now, they say our greatest regrets stem from inaction, not action. And as I watched my wife disappear into the ether, the monstrous check presumably still somewhere in the labyrinthine bowels of the airport, I realized my moment had arrived. This was it. The chance to finally assert dominance. To loudly declare, with a look of utter, theatrical disgust, "I do not know this person!" Oh, if only I were the man I've always hoped to be. But alas, the true coward, remained rooted to the spot, utterly speechless. And silently, miserably, praying that wherever she was, she hadn't given the check to some stranger because she "didn't know what check.