As Easter rolls around, I remember the last time I actually had Easter dinner. It was three years ago, mere weeks after our wedding, and my husband and I were invited to a post-Church brunch at a friend’s house.
We arrived in our bike shorts, looking nothing if not completely out of place. But it had been a last-minute invite (we’d been biking in the area), and our friends are lovely.
After a fantastic Ukranian-style Easter dinner, a few friends of the hosts came over. I began chatting with one woman, a doctor’s wife. Though I’d never met her, she seemed friendly enough. About ten minutes into the conversation, she asked me to point out my husband, and asked after his current employment. I told her he was a grad student at MIT, and she seemed pleased enough. As she drifted off toward the rhubarb crisp, I realized she had never asked my name or my relationship to the crowd; she had shown no interest in me as a person. She was judging me purely by my husband’s status.
When I related the story to my husband that night, he was a little shocked. “Next time someone asks what I do like that,” he said, “tell them I’m a good eater.”