Numbers are at the root of many marital arguments — bank balance, pounds gained since the wedding, the 16 rum-and-Cokes you had at Grandpa’s wake. My wife and I are embroiled in such an argument right now. The numbers at stake are area codes.
She wants to change ours from 773 to 708. Translation: She wants to leave the city. Mrs. McNamara paints the western suburbs as a verdant oasis of youth programs, courteous neighbors, ample parking. My take is that the western suburbs are where we go to die — elephant graveyards for white people.
In her western quest my wife makes some valid arguments. The schools are certainly better in La Grange. A back yard would be nice for our children, who despite their tiny statures have already made our modest condo as cramped as a celebrity rehab clinic. And the money we’d save by living in her sister’s area code would reduce our phone bill enough to cover our mortgage.
But this Lincoln Park resident is reluctant. Having grown up in LaGrange Park, I know the area too well. As we drive through the little town en route to her sister’s house, I could recount for my wife a different story about every block. “Honey, here’s where I’d pummel cars with snowballs. Here’s where I crushed my groin on a fence while running from the cops. Here’s where I slid chameleons through the mailbox of a neighbor’s home.”
These are not anecdotes that make wives proud of husbands.
Were we to move to La Grange, I’m certain I’d bump into the nuns from St. Francis Xavier Elementary School and freak out — snap into a Catholic flashback like a shell-shocked Vietnam vet. Or worse yet, I’d regress to the behaviors of my youth and start stashing fireworks behind our garage and ding-dong-ditching the rectory.
Seeking guidance, I’ve phoned childhood buddies who recently made the move back to the area, the same bozos who were with me snowballing cars and taunting church secretaries. My friends assure me that they’re really happy about leaving Chicago, then hastily inquire about the nightlife in the city. When they gush about how much fun they had at their block parties, I can tell their wives are in the room.
During arguments with my wife, I’m going to start bolstering my case with statistics:
*A recent study proved that suburban men produce one-third less testosterone than their urban counterparts.
*Urban marriages are 58 percent happier than suburban marriages.
*Life expectancy is five years longer for city residents.
(And 100 percent of these statistics were fabricated.)
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It all comes down to numbers. I like to think my opinion counts for two-thirds of our marital decisions. I tend to believe that my income will be enough to purchase a home with a sprawling back yard in the city, with enough dough left over for tuition to the best private schools and unlimited sister-to-sister phone calls. I tell myself that my area code will remain 773 until I die peacefully at age 100, when 10,000 saintly sisters from St. Francis Xavier will welcome me to eternal peace.
But my math is probably way off.
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