New Wives and the Return to Bodice Ripping

by Regis Boff

My wife and I have more than adequately substituted the relationships we once had with our now college entrenched children with a revivifying blend of Netflix, Amazon Prime, and a splash of HBO and Showtime.
We are revisiting our initial dating patterns from now long ago without any of the thoughtful incorporation of each other’s feelings. If viewed from a distance and with a cold eye, our marriage is more contingent on how rapidly a new season of our favorite programs come available than by our swiftly receding enthusiasm for our children.
As a fatalist, I constantly fret that Hollywood will not be able to keep pace with us. My ever optimistic wife concerns herself only with “which” and never “if” new shows will come along, We thus resemble early man in highly flattering ways.
We casually adopt the accents and dispositions of the characters in each series, particularly those that have multiyear installments. By the time we had finished “Game of Thrones,” I had bought a long handled, two-headed ax and had our dog scared shitless that I was coming for him. I had also knitted a flattering hair shirt. My wife had chained our cat in the basement for fire breathing. She, for the briefest of times, was convinced the beast was wandering the neighborhood setting fire to goats from above.
Mind you, not all of this is frivolous. The twenty-three-year run of “Breaking Bad” provided three extensions to our house from the windfalls from my sale of bright blue methamphetamine to my now jittery neighbors.
This month we are watching “The Tudors”, so I am guessing it won’t be long before I take on a couple of new wives and spend my days ripping bodices.