My sister wife is

Petite.  Stylish.  Modern.  She is quiet but smart, discreet but confident, simple but sophisticated.  She is a smooth operator.

My husband takes her everywhere he goes.  He is frantic when he can’t find her.  He loves that she doesn’t need him to talk or spend money.  In fact, all she does is dote on his every move and text romantic sentiments like “Get movin’!” or “Step it up!

She is his first thought upon waking and his last thought before sleeping.  He thinks of nothing but how he can maximize his time with her.

My sister wife is young and hip and sexy.

And she is stealing my husband from me.

 

I’d call this Derrick’s Latest Phase, but he’s been involved with her for over three months–approximately three times the duration of his Standard Phases.

I am worried, my faithfuls.  Very worried.

I know that as First Wife I have certain rights.  I just don’t know what they are.

I do know that, instead of counting my husband’s steps throughout the day, I usually count his missteps.  (It’s my job to improve him.)

Instead of telling him how many calories he’s burned, I usually tell him how many calories he’s consumed.  (Too many.  Always too many.)

Instead of clocking how many miles he’s walked, I usually clock how late he’s getting home from work.  (Too late.  Always too late.)

And instead of quiet and smart, I am loud and slow. Instead of discreet and confident, I am brazen and neurotic. Simple and sophisticated?  Hmm.  More like a hot mess who’s also, in a cruel twist of fate, kinduva hick.

 I am not a smooth operator.

And I’m beginning to see why he prefers her over me.  She’ll never roll her eyes at him, complain about the dog, or turn forty.

But all things considered, it could be worse.

At least she’s not busty.

Then again, neither am I.

(Crap.)

 

 

 

 

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