The raucous laughter of a vindicated man

 

I will freely admit to my own childishness. Heck, I would go so far as to say I proudly OWN my own childishness. Complete with all of its foibles, there is something wonderful about being a kid from time to time. Think about it – the laughter, the joie de vivre, the carefree feeling. Having gone through my fair share of criticisms in the past from friend and foe alike about being “too serious” or “too uptight” (all fair observations at the time), I am very happy to have reached a point of balance in my life. During business hours, I do the adult-thang (have I whined about wearing a tie lately?). But outside of that role, I enjoy the balance of accomplishment and the occasional childish moment. I’m not sure if my better half quite understands that. “What-what-WHAT?” you ask yourself? Allow me to tell you a story.

 

Going back a number of months, we find ourselves in mid-November. On a pleasure-trip up to WeHo with friends from Florida, I found what I believed to be THE perfect silly little goodie for my hubby. In one of the WeHo wacky shops, I found an action figure of none other than Oscar Wilde. Along from his severe profile framed by a green shirt and purple overcoat complete with walking cane and green carnation boutonnière (which is even MORE appropriate given my hubby and I), the package itself could not be perfect. Printed in the background is an unmistakable William Morris simulated wallpaper. And the back of the package contains several of Mr. Wilde’s uproarious quotations. 

 

The profile…

The over-the-top-appearance…

The dignified presence…

The catty and clever quotations…

 

Could there BE a more perfect personality encapsulation of my hubby? I certainly thought not. Heck, with this many similarities, I had to wonder – if I stuck a pin in the figure, would Giley flinch? Needless to say, I made the purchase, and carried a Cheshire Cat grin with me for the rest of the day. Mr. Wilde’s mischievous ride took an interesting turn as he accidentally ended up in the bags of my dear Floridian guests. So… he accidentally traveled across country (as did the real Mr. Wilde), before returning once again via post shortly before the holidays. Whew! Carefully wrapped, he waited under the tree for the grand unveiling on the 25^th.

 

When my dearest opened the package, I anxiously awaited the reaction. My expectation? A chuckle, or a quixotic expression, or some sort of glee. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. My honey looked at it with a confused look. He didn’t get it. He didn’t see it. He honestly didn’t know why he had unwrapped a toy.

 

Now, in all fairness, there is no saying that he had to react as I would have liked. If he didn’t like or appreciate the gift, he didn’t have to. He wasn’t Unappreciative of it – he just didn’t get it. But sadly, for a brief moment, I felt crushed. OK, “crushed” is a bit strong. Deflated is probably a better word. I had mentally psyched myself up for a funny moment of childlike laughter, and it didn’t happen. I was disappointed. But, it was no huge deal. The rest of the day went well, and Mr. Wilde became relegated to the bottom of a box of “things to be dealt with later.”

 

Mr. Wilde did not leave my mind, though. In fact, fate had other plans. When another crew of Florida buds arrived for a visit just a few weeks ago, they brought with them an Oscar Wilde doll from Missy Mo. SHE gets it! THEY get it! So he proudly sits next to the bed nestled up with Pawpi Bear (another dear and precious toy given to me by my dearest and most precious friends). But I digress…

 

Fast-forward to yesterday. Our mischievous Texan buddy, Hal (known for his extreme Victoriana obsession and his collections of all-things-dead), sent us a package. In the enclosed letter, he mentioned coming across the enclosed item which reminded him of us. Enclosed… you guessed it, the exact same Mr. Wilde action figure in the William Morris-inspired wallpapered package. My hubby stood smirking the smirk of defeat while I laughed an incessant and utterly selfish and vindicated laugh that some might interpret as saying something like “Dance of joy! Dance of joy! Somebody gets it! I was right, right, right, right!!!!!!! In your FACE!” OK, I’m immature. Fine, I admit it. But for that brief second, I got “the moment” I had hoped for back in December. Christmas arrived late, and in an odd way…but it felt great.

 

So now, Mr. Wilde #2 sits on top of my computer at work. Standing there in his purple frock, walking cane in hand, he says to me, “The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.” 

 

Ah… Mr. Wilde. You made fun of men, and people loved you for it. You wrote witty criticisms about men, and you became famous for it. You loved a man, and you were imprisoned for it. Rest assured, Mr. Wilde. Your immortality is secure. And he who laughs last, laughs best.