Reflections of a Punk Rocker’s Wife II
When I first read this I laughed my butt off, then I went “Hey, people are going to think I’m a lunatic!” But in the end it’s all good fun. Enjoy another account from my Wife. – Mike E.
“Don’t reach around me to honk the horn while I’m driving!”
“Well then you do it! This piece of shit needs to get the fuck out the way!”
“What are you gonna do if they have a gun?! Huh? Your son and wife are in the car!”
“I’ve told you before to just leave if I have to get out of the car!”
“Oh! and I’m just supposed to go home and not know if you’re alive or dead? If our son is now an orphan and I am a widow?!”
The previous reenactment is a standard conversation in our car. It usually ends with me, and Michael glaring at each other. The logo of one punk band, or another firmly placed on his T-shirt as if it’s mocking my ordinary existence. Didn’t I know that I should never conform? That I should stand up for what’s right no matter the consequences? Didn’t I know that it was still 1978, and there are establishments to rebel against?
Pish! I would love to fight everyone who dared look my way. But the truth is, I have no upper body strength, and can’t fight for shit. And the probability of me stage diving, or being involved in any sort of mosh pit would be purely accidental, and usually because I happened to trip into the middle of said fray.
Being a punk rocker’s life is a dangerous one. Filled with peril, adventure, and music that I can’t quite get a grip on. I can see Michael, and I morphing; me, into a shrew shrieking at him about the voluming of his music, and he flipping me off when my back is turned, and turning it up even louder.
In the end, it’s all good. He’s who I’ve chosen, and I am happy. But seriously Michael, don’t reach over me while I’m driving!