Thursday, May 15, 2008

Why, Yes, that IS an Ice Pick in my Backseat.

The fantasy: I drive up to the prison, run up to my husband, wrap my legs around his waist in a gigantic, borderline obscene hug... the camera circles around us as to capture the moment from every angle while the music swells beneath us. Those around us begin their applause as their eyes overflow with tears of joy... they watch us with a tinge of jealousy as the most inspiring inmate they've ever met walks off into a new and improved life with his beautiful, young, supermodel wife. Maybe the guards are moved enough to throw their hats into the air like proud Harvard Grads.

The reality: I'll drive through two gates wrapped in razor wire while the guards rush me around so I can wait in the designated get-away area. Carrying a plastic garbage bag filled with whatever kitch he accumulated while in there, my husboda will slink over to the car in his last act of expected submission. I'll sweetly follow all I'm instructed to do- look forward, keep my hands on the wheel at 10:00 and 2:00, and stay in the car as I'll be forbidden to get out. Just for fun, I think I'll fill the backseat up with lots of sharp objects. Nail clippers with the files in tact (gasp!), box cutters, real forks. I'll figure out a way to put them to use while I wait. Yes, that will be me. Picking breakfast out of my teeth with a butcher knife until my newly commissioned "ex-con" husband makes his way to freedom. I might just pull over in the prison parking lot, wrap my ankles around his neck and hold him hostage by his cuticles.

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