Don't need to to that anymore

We were treated again recently to that ancient American ritual: a politician apologizing for his sexual misconduct. Per the requirements of the dramatic genre, his wife stood by his side, looking longsuffering and dignified. But then was she? A connoisseur of the female psyche – an Euripides, say, or a Flaubert – may have read in her expression something other than hurt, humiliation or forgiveness. He may have read boredom with the whole nonsense. Look, she seemed to want to say, I did not go to Harvard Law School and work these twenty years to get to where I am – a respected professional, a woman with her own considerable income and social standing in her own right – to do in bed the sort of stuff he likes having done. Besides, he was never a looker and with time things have taken a turn for the worse. Just look at him: doesn’t he look like an overripe fruit? As far as I am concerned, it is just as well that there is someone – some Cindy, or Candy, or whatever her name – prepared to do this work for a few thousand bucks. Why should I? You are not suggesting I should do my own dishes, too?