Polygamy - are you kidding?
A Muslim Frenchman butcher might be doing it. South African President Zuma is doing it and showering regularly. And a few folks in Rocky Ridge Utah say, “Just do it.” Quite honestly, how can a lifestyle that’s a veritable treasure-trove of headaches, run rampant?
Guys like lots of women around. It’s in their owner’s manual right after “Do not leave unit unattended near open beer container.” Plus, the average human male is recklessly proficient at siring offspring. Take one guy and, say, seven or eight wives — in no time you could form a Pee Wee bowling league.
Women, on the other hand, have more common sense. They know one man is typically more trouble than he’s worth.
Yet, people keep doing it. Here a just a few of the problems polygamy is riddled with:
* Delivery room. What with coaching breathing, video taping, or avoiding fainting a husbands job is never done. What would a polygamist do if, say, three wives went into labor simultaneously? A guy would fold under the pressure. I barely survived the gruesome ordeal with our first son – most of the time my head was between my knees.
* Parental responsibilities. Frolicking under the sheets (if you catch my drift), a typical guy is incapable of foreseeing poopy diapers, orthodontics, head lice, butt-numbing Little League games, and the late night “You threw up on the bed, AGAIN!” If one kid got the stomach flu all 28 would. I’ve witness the ol’ “barf-o-rama” and it’s not a pretty picture.
* Pecking order fiasco. A polygamist’s wives must hate each other’s guts. Imagine five wives going out, squished around a mirror in an SUV-sized bathroom clawing for the hair drier and curling iron while the guy is outside sprucing up the mini van. Can you spell d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r? Hi jinx would start with cat urine in the cologne and likely culminate with a bitch-slapping free-for-all (pardon my vulgarity).
* Little piggy syndrome. I’m in trouble 24/7 for bringing microscopic dirt into the house. Women sense dirt like a bloodhound sniffing out a feral gerbil. I’m walking down the hall when a mysterious voice asks, “Is that dirt on the bottom of those shoes?” Well, how should I know? My point is, with multiple wives, there’d be half a dozen voices demanding in unison, “Did you miss the toilet again?!”
* Groveling. During my 30+ years of marriage, I’ve done a lot of heartfelt groveling. Sincere apologies for events I can’t remember. If I might stereotype, most women (including my wife) remember events … well … forever. We’ll be enjoying a movie and out-of-the-blue she’ll lament that one evening, during the Carter Administration, I neglected to affirm her worth as a mother. I always lower my head and nod affirmatively.
Multiple wives = multiple brains = multiple memories. Can you envision the countless blunders a guy would get reprimanded for, over and over again? Hey, a husband’s life is demanding enough having to remember where the silverware goes.
* Don’t fix it. During our entire matrimonial bliss, I’ve courageously tried to fix my wife’s problems when all she wanted was for me to listen. Guys like to fix things: flat tires, sputtering lawnmowers, backyard fences, lukewarm beer. With multiple wives a guy would be swamped listening to problems each day — time more effectively used cleaning fishing gear or filling the cooler with ice.
Jumping into a polygamous relationship scares the tapeworm out of me. Maybe young bucks would be tempted from the procreation standpoint. They can have it. I’m here to tell you that one wife is all this seasoned husband can handle. “Yes dear, that’s my dirty underwear on the dining room table.”