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Men, men, men…you poor males. You really do not have an inkling about what you are up against, gender-wise. We women are complex creatures. By complex, I mean CRAZY. Last week my husband had a business trip in none other than Las Vegas. Sin City. What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas. Naturally, though I had no interest in joining him there, I was not thrilled about him being thrust into the glitz and glamour of the city without a soul. So I handled my angst in my usual way. Which is to say, I was the passive-aggressive she-devil from you- know- where. When I asked him how his conference was going, my voice seethed with resentment. While I happily inquired about his five star dinners, I added a tidbit about the Cinnamon Toast Crunch dinner I had enjoyed. Well, yeah, I am just that ridiculous. I fully admit that I am loony-tunes. And my husband, though he too has his issues, is really just golden when compared against the crazy measuring stick that is me. So when he told me that he had a couple of women hit on him, I pretended not to care. I can be fake like that sometimes. I texted him this all-important question. “How old was she?” “Mid twenties.” Was his VERY disturbing reply. “What would you rank her?” I inquired about hit number one. “An eight.” Was his equally frightening reply. “Well, as a SIX,” I texted back, “I don’t’ like the idea of you being hit upon by eight’s.” And then it happened. “Don’t worry,” he texted back, “you can trust me.” Well duh. But it was too late for that man. Because what he forgot to add was, “but you are a ten” or…at the VERY MINIMUM, ‘you are way more than a six’. But…nothing. Just, “you can trust me.” Which again, duh. We have been married twenty-five years and in that time he has given me not a nanosecond of mistrust. He is a good guy. But obviously, not the most SAVVY guy. Because the fact that he did not immediately text me back and give me number reassurance sent me into a frenzy. A quiet, passive-aggressive frenzy. The most dangerous kind of frenzy. Like a hurricane brewing far off in the ocean, he had no idea that I was upset. Indeed, on the surface I was NOT upset. I nursed my hurt like a festering wound and wondered to myself at what moment I would turn on him, eyes ablaze with insanity and scream, “SO YOU THOUGHT THAT GIRL WAS HOTTER THAN ME?!” Hurricane Kimra is still brewing. Gale force winds are blowing inside of my brain and at any moment (who can even know when?) the storm will hit, wreaking destruction and sorrow in its wake. My husband will not know what hit him. How can he? He is just a man. He does not have an inkling about how to deal with the likes of my crazy self, even after all these years.
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