You know what hurts? When your Spousal Equivalent adds someone to The List who’s standing right in front of you.
Last week the Crazy Like Me Correspondent and I went to a book signing by mystery author Robert Crais. His books are favorites of ours, and I’d heard good things about his personal appearances.
Crais started writing for television shows like Hill Street Blues, Cagney and Lacey, and Miami Vice thirty years ago. He’s been exclusively a novelist since 1987.
That’s the resume of a man in his middle fifties, right? I always figured the youngish-looking stud on his book jackets was the product of an old or airbrushed photograph, recycled to protect the author’s delicate vanity.
Imagine my surprise when a trim, compact guy who could have passed for forty walked into the room. He had smile lines around his eyes, probably because he smiles so much. He was witty, funny (not always the same thing), and self-effacing without the affectation of false modesty. I, of course, am none of the above, and immediately hated him with a zest and vigor only a mature and dedicated misanthrope can attain.
We weren’t ten minutes into his appearance when Craze nudged me and whispered, “He’s on The List.”
(Editor’s Note: For those of you not hip to The List, each partner is allowed up to ten celebrities with whom a casual sexual encounter would not be considered cheating. It can’t be someone either of you already knows, and must be a person of whose celebrity others would be aware. The List is a living document. My current incarnation includes Nicole Kidman, Elle McPherson, Cate Blanchett (
Adding someone to the list while he’s standing less than thirty feet away, separated by only fours rows of people so bereft of social life that a book signing is high Friday night entertainment, is gauche. Telling me about it in real time only adds insult to injury. I’m going to have to watch her every second now.
The greatest insult? When your hand falls asleep while masturbating. Don’t ask.