I will admit it – I am married to Mr. Wonderful. Not only does he put up with me, he enjoys putting up with me (or so he says which is ok).
I came with baggage – three cats, one of whom (now deceased) was diabetic and bordered on being incontinent. It didn’t matter to him (or if it did he kept it to himself and that works for me too). But that is not why my friends called him Mr. Wonderful.
This story starts in the middle 1990s when I moved back home from New Jersey following a particularly painful divorce. At the time I was working in the design field. The field is full of crazy, artistic, temperamental people. I loved them. They always said what they thought no matter what. If you had thin skin, well, too bad!
Mr. Wonderful and I did things as friends. We had known each other a long time and he was freshly divorced. We were two lost souls content to have a friend to do things with. No commitments or routine, just fun.
One of our pseudo-dates was to a rock concert. The love of music is something we share. We used to attend a lot of concerts. Whenever we did, Mr. Wonderful always bought me a t-shirt. Now you know that concert t-shirts are grossly overpriced, never fit and are often ugly but they are proof of your affection for the band.
On one particular occasion, we bought the t-shirts on the way into the concert. We sat in bleacher bench seats. The concert was wonderful. It was rousing music so there were times when we had to stand and chant or sway or sing or something. When it was over, getting out was a mess with people pushing and shoving. I was halfway down the bleacher steps when I realized that I had left my t-shirt (the really expensive $30 one) on the seat. We made our way back up but it was gone (surprise, surprise!).
I was really annoyed with myself. How could I be so stupid? I could have tied it around my waist or something. On the way out Mr. Wonderful bought me another one. So…my concert t-shirt really cost $60.
The next day as I was relating this story to the folks at work, they were amazed. I don’t think they were convinced that I was worth a $60 t-shirt! Or maybe it was because it was a Michael Bolton t-shirt — hey, it was the ’90s! They started calling him Mr. Wonderful and the name stuck until I left the company.
Of course, I still call him Mr. Wonderful especially when he cleans up a hairball.