It started as a lark. Your wife, sitting up in bed one evening, said that she was going to photograph the chickens and put them on Instagram. Or the barn conversion. The house you inherited that she was redecorating in a modern country vein with an updated color palette. Your black Lab — but in a von Trapp-style Trilby hat.
Why not? She had always been good at aesthetics, after all. It seemed harmless, like an extension of her fashion sense; her taste in shoes, earrings, children’s haircuts, moms’-night-in trompe-l’oeil crudité platters that other women seemed to envy.
Her account started with fun little snaps. Harvesty things like full moons and leaves. French things like knives cutting into rounds of Brie and dockyard locals in watch caps. Cotswold things like painted wooden pub signs of pigs with whistles. (Name of pub: The Pig and Whistle.) Pre-empting envy, she was careful not to photograph the entire house with all of the acreage — maybe just an outbuilding or two or a moodier close-up, say, “Mud Puddles.” Or the time you scored an invite to Christmas dinner at Aspen and there was a uniformed staff of 24. No need to go there.
It was Gwyneth-adjacent but with a more down-to-earth vibe. But not too down-to-earth. It was cut flowers and cakes and children’s parties and baguettes on bikes. The occasional topiary in the shape of a cat or a pineapple or King Charles (thank you, local shears-sharpening service). And you — of course, you. She would never be so shallow as to project an aura of availability. “Smile, Babe!” she’d say when you jump-started the old Merc on a running downhill so you could drive to the farmers’ market to buy rhubarb and ramps.
You laughed at how quickly she caught on. “Ha!” you said to yourself on a proud note when someone who was someone or knew someone (tbh, you hadn’t totally followed the details) tagged her leading to a surge in followers. “Ha! Look at that.” No one could have predicted that that was only the beginning.
The posts got a little more elaborate. And you were right there to help. Now, your old black Lab — your bachelor dog who predated her by two years — was wearing not just hats but also costumes. Sometimes you had to hold a flashlight or jury-rig a follow spot so that the old boy’s face, sticking out between the 18th-century wig and puffy shirt, would light up just right. Or throw a strawberry at your child’s open mouth 50 times. Or rappel down the side of your house in a wet suit and goggles for a lighthearted post about mezcal-based cocktails. But no one could deny your wife had the vision.
And no one was denying it. They were following, hearting, being kind to one another, forming a community — an aesthetically minded community centered on your wife. Heck, it was one of the reasons you’d fallen for her. You yourself had (you’d always felt) a kind of latent aestheticism that she had coaxed out, leveling up your weekend clothes, your work clothes, your sneakers; ditching your barber for someone who really “gets men’s hair.”
And hey, it wasn’t like she didn’t thank you publicly on the way to 25 to 50 to 100,000 followers. She was as good as her word! Not that you’d ever spoken directly about the account, which you pretended to tolerate (your burner account so that you could follow her notwithstanding).
Every anniversary, every birthday, it was all you. “The glue that keeps our family together!” “The one who makes it all possible!” “The best husband and father who also … builds a mean chicken coop!” (Close-up of Dutch bantam poking head out of cupola.) “Reads a mean bedtime story!” (But not “The one who holds down a mean diversified industries I-banking job at a second-tier firm!” That wasn’t the vibe.)
Of course, this semiannual celebration of you on the account begged a picture of you. The black-and-white wedding candid of you dipping her semi-ironically but actually not ironically but therefore truly ironically on the dance floor could be reposted only so often or it would lose its charm. And herein lay the rub. For what ought your expression to be?
It wasn’t your fault that despite your many accomplishments, personal and professional, you had arrived, finally, as the Husband on Instagram (the man married to Mrs. — yes — 150,000 followers and counting). You were just a victim of the times! And you certainly didn’t want to undermine her. But there was signaling to be done. You mustn’t seem to be enjoying this. For you really weren’t. Or maybe you were.
The truth was you had forgotten what it was like to row a boat, dine abroad, saw, piggyback a child, put your feet up by the fire (“makes a mean fire!”) or fall asleep on the sofa beside your dog without having it captured for the account. Forbearance — cheerful forbearance — seemed like an OK thing to project, so you went with that, lips pressed together, expression of tolerance in the eyes, “I know that you know that I know” but definitely not in any way undermining. An embarrassment-of-riches expression; OK, you caught me; noblesse oblige; #ihavearealjob; hands are tied; everybody’s doing it; what was I gonna do, say no?
The juggernaut rolled on. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t just her anymore! People loved you! They wanted you to start your own account. They agitated for more, a spinoff. “Charles in Charge!” they begged. “Jerrysworld, pretty please!” Bertinthegarden. Chateaudave. Timisanalcoholic. Alancanpickle. Or a joint account … with your dog! “I’ll have to ask him!” she would comment demurely (presumably meaning you, not the dog). It was flattering as hell.
Two years in, and you were facing the Rubicon. The way forward led to eternal glory. To retreat now, in the name of increasingly vague principles like “privacy” and “having a real life off of social media,” seemed bummery. You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders. And tried to ignore the consternation in your dog’s eyes when you called: “Hon’! I’m just gonna run downtown and grab some tiki torches, D batteries and a wind machine! Don’t move!”
