Phyllis

I love you Phyllis, even though we haven't met yet. You're the woman of my fantasies.

Phyllis. I think her name would be Phyllis. Phyllis is a strong, sturdy, no-nonsense name. Phyllis gets things done. Phyllis is where she is supposed to be when she is supposed to be there. Phyllis does what she says she is going to do without delay.

Now that I’m in my mid-fifties, I no longer fantasize about rock stars or romance novel cover models. I fantasize about late middle-aged women named Phyllis.

Imagine what Phyllis could do for me. I could simply hand Phyllis a task and say, “Deal with this,” and Phyllis would deal with it. She wouldn’t ask a million questions that would make me wonder if it wouldn’t have been easier to just do the darn thing myself. Sometimes, I don’t even need to hand the task to Phyllis. She sees that it needs to be done and does it without being told.[1]

Phyllis. What I wouldn’t give for you to really be in my life.

Imagine that life! Sometimes, in my lawyer life, I think about how no one told me in my civil procedure class how much time I’d spend with a three-hole punch or fighting with the margins on a Word doc. In my writer life, I spend very little time actually writing. The rest is marketing, arguing with Word Press, and hoping that greater design tools can make up for the fact that I am an abysmal graphic designer.

Once in a while, I close my eyes and I imagine Phyllis doing all the marketing, making the graphics, posting it all on Substack and websites. She could weed through my emails and mark the ones I actually need to read/deal with. Man oh man, what I could get done if Phyllis would do all that for me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not exploiting Phyllis’ competence. In my fantasy life, I’m fantastically wealthy, so I can pay Phyllis well. I’ll give her health insurance, paid vacation days (so long as her friend, Frances, pinch hits for her), and credit for every single one of my successes. I expect Phyllis to call me out when I’m acting a fool. Phyllis knows better than to “yes” me to death. She calls it like she sees it. She saves me from myself.

I know some people who have Phyllisses[2]. They’re all men, and they are all married to their Phyllis. Phyllis makes their meals, makes their travel arrangements, packs their suitcases, and sees that everything is in order so that they can get the job done. They don’t have to worry about the kids because they know that Phyllis has made sure all the soccer forms have been filled out. Phyllis RSVPs to all events and buys appropriate gifts. All he has to worry about is getting the job done.

That’s all I want. To get the job done. I want the support to get the job done that men have had for generations.

She doesn’t have to marry me—I’m not interested in that anyway. She can go home to her own life and do what she wants to do at night. Like I said, I’ll pay her. At 100 cents on the dollar[3], or maybe more. Just please, Phyllis, for the love of God, make this copier print on both sides for me.

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[1] This is how you know she’s a fantasy. Who in the real world takes that kind of initiative?

[2] Phyllisi?

[3] The Gender Wage Gap Endures in the U.S. | Pew Research Center