My husband gave himself a DVD player for Christmas

The Ideal Husband

My husband gave himself a DVD player for Christmas. The analysis, setup and testing make a story by themselves. I can sum it up best by describing our reaction to a Dot-com television advertisement in which the grandfather, sitting in the rocking chair, speaks to a young couple in the process of setting up their complex new home theater system. Before Christmas, my family watched this advertisement in silence several times and, although nobody mentioned it, we all assumed the old man was speaking gibberish. After Christmas the same commercial played and the grandfather’s gibberish suddenly became rather lucid instructions for connecting DVD player and we cried out in unison, “Now I get it”!

We are enjoying the novelty of having a DVD player in the living room. A coupon for free movie rentals from an Internet service accompanied the purchase. Not having tried this type of service before, I went online to give it a try. I wanted to watch a movie recommended by a friend, so I typed “the perfect husband” in the search box.

No match.

I was surprised. Certain that the movie should be available for rental; I tried again, with the same result.

The next day I remembered the correct title, “The Ideal Husband”.

An understandable mistake, I thought, thinking only of the search terms. Later, however, I reflected on this “understandable mistake” in more general terms. How often have I confused perfection with ideal, especially with respect to husbands.

The “ideal” husband would be caring, sensitive, thoughtful, respectful, and a host of other enviable adjectives. The “perfect” husband, however, might be a royal pain to live with. The perfect husband, while undoubtedly a handsome six-foot two replica of Harrison Ford, who remembers every birthday, anniversary and holiday, might also always balance the checkbook to the penny, be painfully tidy, and manage to keep the gas gauge on full at all times. Well okay, so far, so good.

But, the problem with perfection isn’t with each individual attribute, but with the accumulation of the whole. As Hesiod, a Greek poet, said, “If you add a little to a little, and then do it again, soon that little shall be much.” Make that too much.

The more I reflect on it, the prospect of living with someone who is truly perfect—hey, its bad enough living with someone who simply thinks he’s perfect—fails to flood my veins with burning desire.

Imagine the pressure of knowing the other person is always right. He always picks the most appropriate clothes—no need for your advice. He always puts his socks in the hamper. He rinses his plate and puts it in the dishwasher--facing the right way, no less. His gifts always fit and never require returning. He makes the best selections be it wine or mutual funds.

My God, if he ever gained a pound it would be pure muscle, if he ever broke a plate it would while placing it in the Good Will box. Your mother would praise his impeccable manners and the neighbors would envy your neatly edged, weedless lawn. Your sister would rely on him for household repairs; and he would be available to do them because all of your doors already hang straight--on squeakless hinges, no less.

The final blow would be his sympathetic pat on your back as you barfed your guts out in jealous frustration.

So, I would prefer to have an ideal husband with a few faults. After all, how disappointing it would be to look at my life-mate and know I could not improve him. It would take the purpose out of life.

But, then again, the audio might work on the DVD.