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He opened his Christmas gifts first, then dancing with anticipation handed me my
present. The gift bag was securely closed with a ridge of scotch-tape, evidence
of his own hand in this artful presentation. I exercised all the pre-opening
rituals: gently stroking the outside, carefully shaking it near the ear, and
complimenting the packaging, as well as the obligatory, “Thank you, Honey.” I
even ventured a few guesses.
“Jewelry?”
“No.”
“Well, judging by the shape, it’s probably not candy.”
“You’re right. It’s not candy.”
“Pajamas! Silk, right?”
“No. It’s not pajamas but you’re getting closer. Go ahead. Open it.”
In an instant, I popped the row of scotch tape and looked inside the satiny red
wrapping bag. I froze in disbelief as I stared at what my husband deemed the
perfect gift. “A SHOWER MASSAGE!” I knew right then and there the
romance was more than dead. It was beyond resuscitation. In fact, it was stone
cold. “For me?” I feigned pleasure.
“Well, it’s really for the both of us. That’s why I spent a little extra.”
Since we bought a video camera as a mutual Christmas present to each other, we
set a personal gift limit of $25. He went over the top to $30. “You shouldn’t
have,” I said honestly.
“I know you said you wanted jewelry. Surprised?”
“Oh, yes. I’m speechless!”
At some point over the past couple decades, the Prince Charming I married went
through a metamorphosis. The handsome suitor who used to buy me Russell
Stover Chocolates emerged an aged athlete peddling Mr. Coffee. Practicality
slowly replaced sentimentality. I wanted to tell Joe DiMaggio to take a hike,
find my misplaced fairy godmother, and tell her to bring back Prince Charming.
Instead I muttered a half-hearted, “Gee. Thank you.”
“Pour yourself another cup of coffee and relax while I get the shower massage
ready for you.” He took the monstrosity from the bag; and with his toolbox in
hand, bounded up the steps like a schoolboy at recess.
He whistled while he worked. In the meantime, I stewed in my disappointment.
“A shower massage. Ump!” I felt like Grumpy while he played the part of
Happy.
“All set,” he beamed. “You first! After all, it is your present.”
“That it is.” I trudged to the upstairs bathroom, took off my robe, and stepped
into the wide spread spray. To my pleasant surprise, the steamy mist enveloped
my senses. I felt as if I had just entered a sauna.
“Well, now. This is sort of nice.” I took the shower head in hand and
experimented with the dial. Suddenly, reams of pulsating gushes hit my arthritic
joints. I let my mind drift, imagining I was under a waterfall in Tahiti. “Hey, I
thought. This is not bad. Not bad at all.”
When there was no more hot water, I reluctantly turned the shower off, towel-
dried, put on my bathrobe, and wandered downstairs.
Joe DiMaggio was anxiously awaiting the umpire’s verdict. “Well?” He looked
like an innocent child who had just given his mother a wilted dandelion, waiting
for a hug of gratitude.
“It’s out of the ball park, Slugger. A grand slam home run.”
He smiled his cute little boy smile. Behind the smirk, I recognized the faded but
familiar royalty that I fell in love with so many years ago. Joltin’ Joe had not
completely taken over. My once darling Prince Charming still lived inside that
paunchy but adorable man, and he knew exactly what this tired, achy body
needed.
Copyright by Linda Rondeau
For reprint permission
email: lrondeau@westelcom.com
WHERE DID PRINCE CHARMING GO?
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