There are times when you really think you know a person, then something happens that sets your world into a tailspin.
The day I discovered my husband’s ugly secret was a day like any other. No, wait. It started out better than any other because that’s how these days always begin: the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and everything was right with the world.
I was unpacking some boxes in our spare room when I came across a box of books that were my husband’s during college. For a writer, this was pure bliss — I would learn even more about my wonderful man and get a brief glimpse into the sacred tomes that had helped shape his life.
I found psychology books, business books, and history books. There were classics like “Moby Dick,” “Daisy Miller,” and “Glengarry Glen Ross.” I even came across a Bill Cosby book—ah, my man has quite the sense of humor.
It was while I was in this euphoric state that I found them peeking out sinisterly from beneath the treasure trove of books. I was shocked. I was disgusted. What I found changed my view of my husband forever.
I found — and even to this day it’s difficult for me to admit it — I found…sob…CLIFFS NOTES!!!!
Their shiny yellow covers with black stripes stung me as I found that my husband, the love of my life, had not only one book of Cliffs Notes — he had several!!
As I fell to my knees and fanned them out, I felt faint. The summaries (I refuse to refer to them as “books”) mocked me, “Guess who doesn’t read? Guess who doesn’t read?”
Just then the infidel walked into the room, smiling as though nothing were wrong. “What’s the matter?” he asked oh-so-innocently.
I could barely speak. “Look. What? These?” I sputtered.
“Oh, hey, cool, you found my Cliffs Notes,” he said. “Boy, they really helped me get through those English classes in college.”
“What?!” I was yelling now. “What?! You mean that when we talked about that literature class we both took, you had never read any of the books for it?”
“Well, I read what I could,” he said not-even-a-bit-sheepishly. “But I just couldn’t read that fast. He expected us to read a book a week.”
Snort. “Like that could happen,” he said.
I was nearing apoplexy. Everything was suddenly oh-so-wrong. How could I have misjudged him. How could I have married a man who didn’t read!
“Michele, you’re really making too much out of this,” the heathen said a bit too nonchalantly. “I like to read, I just can’t read nearly as fast as you can. And I wanted to keep up with the class. That should count for something.”
Now he was making a point that was seeming reasonable. I must have been having a stroke for sure.
Granted, my husband is a self-admitted math man. I am at the other end of the spectrum as a words woman. “It would be like you using a calculator,” he stated.
No. It. Wouldn’t! I had lost it so much at this point that I may have been speaking in tongues. But unfortunately, he wouldn’t have been able to understand me because we didn’t have Cliffs Notes for that.
This happened many years ago, and I was able to forgive him — even if I can’t forget.
More recently, we were cleaning through some other boxes, when my husband picked up the familiar yellow cover with the black stripes.
“I thought you got rid of all those,” I sneered.
“I did,” he quipped. “This must be yours. Does ‘Troilus and Cressida’ ring a bell?”
“Yeah,” I said. “My professor recommended that we get that because we were reading it in my Chaucer class, and it was really difficult to understand,” I explained.
“So you didn’t read it,” he replied.
“Yes, I did read it. I read it a number of times,” I answered.
“But you still needed Cliffs Notes,” he said.
“That’s because we had to read it in the original MIDDLE ENGLISH — that’s like learning a whole new language,” I screamed.
But it didn’t work. He smiled. And just kept smiling.
“You’ve got Cliffs Notes. You’ve got Cliffs Notes.”
Perhaps some skeletons should just remain in the closet where they belong.