I Give Up

.

I am involved with a brilliant man.

I admire him greatly. I love his mind, his wit, his wisdom; his political astuteness. That which he knows about life and the human condition is mind boggling.

My respect for him grows exponentially…

Daily.

But as educated as he is ( and I assure you, he is), as adroit in the ways of means of academic applications of behavior and sociological theory, he is a typical male.

As a heterosexual woman, I couldn’t have him any other way. But there is, I’m convinced, a synaptic misfire of an emotional nature that happens somewhere in one of those lobes up there in his very cute noggin. I think that’s the case in men in general. Don’t worry, I won’t harp on that. God knows, I’ve written enough about it. Most women have. But we’re wasting our dexterity. The reality is that men just don’t think like women.

Case closed.

But my problem runs deeper. This dynamic male with whom I’m falling in love, doesn’t even think like other men!!!

But he is like his penised counterparts in that he wants to talk about grilling vertebrates on the BBQ and I want to talk about the dynamic of our relationship. For grins? No, because it needs discussing. I would only discuss our relationship issues if they needed discussing and lately, they do.

He will concede that we need to talk, but to him a conversation regarding this subject matter should be short and sweet. It is his complaint, that I share an all too common problem with my sisters of Fallopia.

Women see our willingness to talk as just that: a willingness to talk because we’re more open and honest about our feelings. If we feel love, that visceral swelling in our hearts that renders us giddy, we talk about it. Consequently, we also discuss what makes us sad and what puzzles us.

Men don’t get this. In terms of our dealing with emotions and issues, they apply several platitudes to us women folk. They say that when it comes to matters, we simply cannot “let sleeping dogs lie” and we also “beat dead horses”.

And according to my beloved Prime Minister, I am my gender’s biggest offender.

For example, he’ll say something that genuinely hurts my feelings or infuriates me. I will react accordingly. If I get an apology or something remotely apologetic, he’ll say something to the effect of, “I’m sorry your feelings were hurt.”

He’s “sorry my feelings were hurt”? He’s not that he…HE has hurt me???

See what I mean? He’s part of the few…the proud…the arrogant.

This is evidenced by the way he avoids responsiblity for his actions. An apology sans depth or meaning or responsibility is an empty, meaningless apology. It is devoid of the satisfaction the offended party has to have in order to let an issue fall by the wayside.

And he wonders about this “dead horse” issue??? Jeez, I could open up a Laurie Industries division of Alpo with the dead horses I’ve beaten.

And futhermore gentlemen, if you want us to refrain from beating un mortuus equus, A) don’t give us the gun B) don’t show us how to shoot the damned gun and C) then for God’s sake, don’t put the club in our hands so the postmortem drubbing can begin !!!

Just the other day we were quizzing each other about esoteric data about each other. I knew everything he asked me. Why? Because I listen. I absorb what he says to me, because he means a great deal to me. That said, I process the information and I store it for instant retrieval.

He asked and I answered.

I knew his favorite beer.

His favorite mixed drink.

I knew about his appreciation for Leonard Cohen.

That which comprises his favorite meal.

So, then it was my turn to ask. Long story short, I asked a few questions. I was almost scared of the answers I’d receive.

And with good reason. Here’s how that debacle went down::

  • Q: What color are my eyes?
  • A. Uh…green, I think?
  • WRONG!!! They’re brown.
  • Q. What’s my middle name?
  • A: Is it Elizabeth??
  • WRONG!!! It’s Anne
  • Q: Where did I graduate from college?
  • A: University of Houston or Dallas or some town in Texas, right?
  • WRONG!!! Southwest Texas State University IN San Marcos, Texas
  • Q: How long have I been involved in Broadcasting?
  • A. About…oh….uh…what? I don’t know…around 35 years??
  • WRONG!!! And screw you! I’m not that old!! I entered my 26th year in the biz in late 2007.
  • A: What’s my favorite flower?
  • B. Gee….self rising maybe?
  • WRONG!!! Tulips. I love TULIPS, you big jerk!!
  • Q) What size shoe do I wear?
  • A) a 6, maybe?
  • RIGHT!!!!

Finally.

Despite his horrific showing in the Q &A portion of our relationships, this man really knows me and I know him. It took me a few days, but I now know that minutia is important, but it’s the core of a relationship; it’s the other stuff, the serious stuff. The stuff that matters. It’s my knowing that he’s deathly allergic to shellfish and he knows I have limited mobility after a serious auto accident 17 years ago. But he’s not sure about my eyes or my middle name? After being together now for 14 months? True, it’s a long distance relationship, but if I can remember things about him, why can’t he remember things about me?

Because of their wiring, LK….male wiring.

Huh? What? Oh yes…the big, bold, italicized print indicates my conscience is now typing.

And while you’re trying to convince yourself of that, try wrapping your head around the fact that it’s no big deal that he doesn’t know a few “little things” about you. No big deal, right?

But it is a big deal. To me, anyway. What about this, Dear Conscience—is it the comprisal of all the “little things” that make an intimate relationship, intimate?

I’m not sure about that, but I do know with utmost assurance that I respect him and care for him deeply.

I do believe he cares for me too, though the cursed “love” word has yet to be uttered. But his actions speak louder than words.

I know for a fact that he’d kick the ass of ANYONE who hurt his little green eyed, University of Dallas educated, 35-year veteran of radio and TV, Gold Medal All Purpose flour lovin’, size-six shoe wearing woman who’s middle name is Elizabeth.

Great for her, but I wonder if he’d do ever do that for me?

.

ILYPM

.

8 comments

  1. Terrific humor, great fiction!

    I said 25 years and not 35 years so as give you a few less miles.

    As for the rest…let’s just say your memory is faulty…comme d’habitude…

  2. Why do I get the distinct feeling that this is no exaggeration and exactly the tone of all your private conversations? You two are nutz.

  3. Here’s what I know:
    1. This guy likes Leonard Cohen (a known Canadian).
    2. You’ve brazenly given him the initials PM (You even fucked up and referred to him outright as the Prime Minister).
    3. You speak French to each other.

    Conclusion: You’re having an affair with our leader, Stephen Harper.

    Does this mean I have to call you Ma’am?

  4. There’s really a very simple, medical explanation for this condition PM is afflicted with.

    It is called blue balls.

    When faced with a long distance relationship, and the inability to expunge oneself of male jelly, the average male will begin to experience an abundance of sperm in his testicular appendage. The side effects include absent mindedness and massive erections. The erections in question also divert much needed blood from the brain, further hampering the victim.

    Show a little compassion….geez…..

    :p

  5. Hey, PM. Hurry and get over here to the hill country. Steaks are awaiting!!!

And now, you may opine your ass off...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s