I don't understand jealousy in relationships.  I honestly don't.

 I'm not sure if I have a very healthy dose of self-esteem, or if I'm just not wired to feel the tug of the old green-eyed monster.  Either way, I've never been jealous, not even the tiniest little bit, in any of my relationships with boyfriends, or even either husband.  I just don't get it, and I suppose I never will.

Looking back, I'm sure that my complete lack of understanding probably drove some of my guys nuts.  They say it's always nice to know that you're valued, and that every once in awhile a little niggling doubt doesn't hurt anything, but it's always seemed a complete waste of time to me.

 I mean....c'mon.  I have much better things to do than worry about who my husband is talking to, or why he's an hour late getting home from work, or even if he has some women's phone numbers programmed into his cell phone.  Admittedly, at this point in my current relationship I really don't give a rat's ass if he does have someone on the side, but even when it would have mattered, I just never thought about it.

 I guess I always figured that if he ever cheated, I'd find out about it eventually.  The world isn't really that big, and anything that's more than a one night liason is certain to make the rounds and get back to me sooner or later.

My philosophy has always been that if someone is going to cheat, they're going to cheat, and me worrying, or spying, or checking up isn't going to change the tiger's stripes at all.  Besides, as Mama always said, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and if this one wants to cheat, I have absolutely no problem turning him loose, and finding one who won't.

I guess that is healthy self-esteem.  But, I digress.

My husband has the most suspicious mind I've ever known.  Oh, he put on a great show, and was able to keep it up the whole time we were dating, but I guess, in his mind, once we were married, he had ownership, or something.

If he sees my silk undies in the dryer, I was wearing them because I was meeting up with someone during the day while he was at work, not because I'm a lazy bitch, and those were the only ones clean at the time.

Honestly, he once pitched a true hissy-fit over me washing the bedsheets one day.  "Why did they have to be washed today?" he demanded, scowling down at me, chest puffed out, oozing offended testosterone.

They'd been on the bed a week, they needed to be washed. *shrug*

 He didn't back down until I finally promised, with all the sarcasm that I could muster, that I would call him next time I decided to wash the sheets, and make sure it was okay.

Several years ago he got on this kick where he thought he was a misplaced CIA agent, and he prowled through my things: dresser drawers, my car, etc.  Maxwell Smart was the better spy.  While searching my car, he accidently locked all the doors, and then set the alarm off when he got out.

When he walked into the house, I was standing there, laughing so hard that tears were running down my face.  "Find what you were looking for?" I finally managed to get out.  He just scowled manfully, and stalked off.

If you're gonna spy, for fuck's sake, don't set the damned alarm off.  Dumbass.

I was willing to take his current secret agent phase in stride at the time.  After all, I really didn't have anything to hide, and it had moments of pure comedy gold.  But he overstepped himself when he decided that my purse was fair game, but only if he searched it when I was asleep, in the shower, or however occupied somewhere else.

 I don't care how long a couple has been married, each person is entitled to some privacy.  What I carry in my purse is probably pretty generic when compared to every other woman's purse, but the first rule for boyfriends and husbands, and they all know it instinctively, is stay the fuck out of my purse.

I don't go through his wallet.  Never have, never will.  It's just one of those things, you know?

It could have been going on some time, I'm not sure, but I eventually became aware that the stuff in my purse wasn't arranged in the order it usually is.  The difference was only slight - perhaps my wallet was on the bottom instead of the top, like it usually is - but once I realized what he was doing, I wasn't amused anymore.  I was pissed.

I thought about the situation for several days, and finally the solution occurred to me, like it was placed there by the patron saint of pissed-off wives.  

He goes to bed much earlier than I do, since he gets up much earlier, and after he went to bed one night, I readied my purse for his next excursion, and went to bed.

Sure enough...about 5:30 the next morning I was awakened by one of the most bloodcurdling screeches I'd ever heard, accompanied by enough cursing that I immediately knew what had happened.  Secret Agent Man decided to go through my purse before leaving to go to work, and got taught a sharp lesson.  One that he's been taught a couple of times since:

Go through my purse if you like, but maybe today, maybe tomorrow...eventually, I will have my revenge.

I'd set a mousetrap, and lightly hidden it under some paper right at the top of my purse.  He lost a fingernail, and may have even cracked a bone - it was black and blue for weeks.

Maxwell Smart has retired.  I still have my mousetrap.