Fantasy: Cars, buildings, refrigerators—my wife never opens a door on her own. I am the ultimate gentleman and guardian of thresholds.

Reality: I open doors for my wife as much as possible, but she won’t let me say the “guardian of thresholds” thing in public.

Fantasy: Emotionally, I am more stable than a thousand-year-old Sequoia.

Reality: I faked a cat allergy when my wife caught me crying at the end of Toy Story 3.

Fantasy: Gene Kelly and James Brown wish they could keep up with my dazzling dance moves.

Reality: My wife says I dance like the Tin Man before he got his joints greased.

Fantasy: Each week, I offer my wife a new recommendation from my expertly curated library of podcasts. She cannot believe she married a man with such refined taste in audio media.

Reality: When I recommended a podcast on the history of the Russian space program, she rested her hand on my shoulder and said, “I love you, but please, just stop.”

Fantasy: Step aside Tim the Toolman Taylor, no home-improvement project is too much for me and my Dewalt 32-piece tool set.

Reality: I have bookmarked over a hundred DIY videos on YouTube which I will get to as soon as I’m done rewatching this “Crocodile vs. Komodo Dragon” series.

Fantasy: I will use any means necessary to defend our home. You hear that, bad guys? Any. Means. Necessary.

Reality: For whatever reason, porch pirates are completely unfazed by my dual Deadpool-replica Desert Eagle airsoft guns.

Fantasy: When food supplies are low, I hunt and kill wild beasts and triumphantly slam their still-warm corpses onto our dinner table.

Reality: I am an avid hunter of basement-dwelling spiders and centipedes.

Fantasy: Asserting my firm but gentle paternal energy, I raise our children to be calm, poised, and respectful at all times.

Reality: By age five our kids have a TikTok channel with ten million followers that’s just clips of them seeing how many LEGO bricks they can fit into my mouth while I’m asleep. I think they’re up to thirty-eight now?

Fantasy: Every day I drop my wife off at work on my Ducati Panigale V4 R motorcycle. She takes off her helmet in slow-motion, unfurling her wild, wind-swept mane, and gives me a long, tonguey kiss that makes all her co-workers shudder with jealousy.

Reality: We both work from home and, after an embarrassing mishap on Zoom, her co-workers refer to me as “Armpit.”

Fantasy: My sexual prowess shames even the most virile adult film stars. Every time my baby and I make love, she can’t help but scream, “Oh my god, you’re so amazing!”

Reality: “Oh my god, you’re so amazing!” she screams as I find the “Top/Bottom” tag of the fitted sheet in record time.

Fantasy: When the kids leave for college, I hope my little lady is ready, ‘cause from now on, we’re gonna live life to the fullest, every day of the week:

Monday? Party.

Tuesday? Party like it’s Monday.

Wednesday? Fly to Ibiza and take lots of drugs at a rave full of young people.

Thursday? Travel home. Party on the plane with a mob of young ravers.

Friday? A full day of hot yoga and spirulina shots to detox from all the partying.

Saturday? FaceTime the kids, then back to partying.

Sunday? Plan our weekly trip to Ibiza. Go skydiving.

Reality: Monday? Play pickleball, weather permitting.

Tuesday through Sunday? Recover from Monday, whether we played pickleball or not.

Fantasy: I love my wife and family with all my heart, and that makes me a hero in their eyes.

Reality: In spite of my many faults, this one actually checks out.