In college I took a women's studies class. In hindsight, I'm not sure why. A room full of raging estrogen and one homosexual man isn't entirely my idea of a good time. Actually, it was a good time, that gay guy and I really hit it off; I really saw a future there...I could have been the next Liza. Never too late to fulfil that dream. Calling all gays: report to me immediately for unconditional friendship -- I will sing at your wedding and entertain you with stories of being the toast of the town and Queen of Broadway. Note to self: become the toast of the town and Queen of Broadway, gays don't befriend liars. What was my point? Yes. Women's studies being an easy class in college. The answer for everything was, "the body," I kid you not. Why do women fall victim to the glass ceiling? Their body. Why is it that women are the ones that have babies and not men? Their body. Why is the thesis of your essay about misogyny and all of your supporting paragraphs are random facts about femininity? That's the body of the essay... A+ for me. To be honest, I don't know that I learned anything from that class... except that my gay friend wasn't into me in the romantic sense.
My point here is that in order to get an A in our relationship, Boyfriend really only needs to know one single thing. Just one. Boyfriend has yet to learn that the answer to everything in our relationship is time. I'm a huge advocate for me-time, it mellows me out and in turn, I'm a nicer girlfriend. During long-winded fights, I sometimes need time to get away from his non-sensical recycled points. This break I get allows me to put things into perspective and figure out that a heated debate about non-existent iPhone apps maybe aren't worth the effort. Sometimes, all the time that's needed is a subtle pause. For instance, the other day:
I stared at myself in the mirror, you know how girls do. You know us ladies, we're all pretty faces and no brains and that's why we make less money than men (did I learn this in college or was it something I saw on MTV?). I did the lean-in so my face practically touched my reflection. Okay, I was being narcissistic and trying to make out with myself, sue me. I needed to see if there was any presence of wrinkles, my skin was clear and my trademark you're-an-idiot-smirk was in fine form. I stood up straight and fluffed my hair to see what I was working with. Then I made the mistake of turning to the side and to my horror, saw the slight overhang of a muffin top that was making itself comfortable around my midriff. Le damn. Boyfriend came in to brush his teeth, so I asked him what every girl has asked their significant half at one time or another.
Boyfriend, I need an honest opinion. Do you think I'm getting f-
Yes.
-at? Beg pardon?
He smiles. I've never wanted to decapitate him so much in my life. The head would be the first to go. Don't be gross, I mean the one that does all of his thinking. Seriously? I'm talking about the one that I can't take seriously. Alright stop. I don't mean his penis. I mean the head that perches on his neck just waiting for me to rip it off and punt it like a football. He'd like that. Every man should know that when a woman asks for an honest opinion she's looking for reassurance. No woman wants the actual truth, especially when the question isn't even finished before the answer comes into existence. For the ladies out there who read this, shake their head and say, "Oh no, my relationship is built on a foundation of honesty," you're probably just shacked up with the gents that are either liars or mama's boys. To you I say, God bless ignorance. But Boyfriend, he failed. He must have missed the class on how to feign sincerity when you lie through your teeth. You would think something that affected his ability to continue life would become a second nature to him. Bad Boyfriend. He pressed his luck and took it one step further. As if his cockamamie smile wasn't enough for an immediate outburst of She-Hulk deliciousness, he reached out and gave my overhang a squeeze. What happened next is kind was kind of a blur; fast forward a few steps to the attempted murder. I tackled him like a linebacker and we both ended up in the shower fully-clothed (this isn't a porno after all). For the copycats out there, a word of advice: you can't drown somebody with a shower head alone. Perhaps the issue was lack of water pressure, I'm not sure. The She-Hulk altered her kill plan and lifted the shower head above her head, preparing to bludgeon him like so many cartoon folk do with frying pans. A war-cry filled the bathroom as the She-Hulk brought the pain. She threw her arms down as though she swung an axe, and Boyfriends hands lifted to guard his face from the attack.
The seconds that ensued were possibly the worst of my life. There was no climactic destruction. Boyfriend, feeling brave, peeked through his fingers to see why he wasn't pulverized. The She-Hulk, in a frenzy, continued to swing back and forth with the shower head, it was to her great misfortune that the hose attached to the wall was not so long as to reach Boyfriend's cranium. Well, piss. Boyfriend let go of a laugh, picked himself up from where he cowered in the bathtub, toweled off and sauntered to the bedroom to change. The She-Hulk was left howling in the bathroom, angry at her failure.
The lesson here, Boyfriend, is that moments like this will stop happening if you take the time to pause, disagree with any shortcomings I may or may not have and give me the answer I want to hear. Problem solved. Remember it this way: Take a pause, or I will kill you.
Interesting though that this last She-Hulk experience came about because of an issue with the female body. Maybe that women's studies prof wasn't entirely the type that chased chickens in her free time. It is a fun pastime though.
Time for tea,
K
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