You come home from a hard day’s work. You kick off your shoes, grab a cold one from the fridge and plop down in your recliner. You grab the remote, turn the TV to ESPN… and the inevitable happens. Your wife steps right in front of you, modeling some new article of clothing she bought on sale at some discount clothing store, where the only men who work there are in the back unloading semis full of discount clothing. And then she says…
“Does this make me look fat?”
Time starts to slow down. You can’t even hear Sports Center anymore because the blood rushing to your brain has drowned out all possible sound. You sit there, trying to remember what the beer tasted like, because you know that no matter what words come out of your mouth… you are going to die. And this will be your last beer.
You stand a better chance of survival in a gladiator arena.
In the flash of an instant, possible scenarios play out in your mind:
Me: “You look great. Now, can I finish watching the scores?”
Wife: “Great? You mean like… great big? Is that what you mean?”
Me: “No, no. I mean… you look wonderful. Can I just drink my beer and finish—“
Wife: “Wonder-full? Like full-figured? I’ll show you full! How about a face full of sutures?!”
It doesn’t matter how you play it out… it still ends the same:
Sincere me: “Honey, you look like a goddess! You’re a pure vision of love and beauty. Now, if it’s not too much trouble, can I please finish watching—“
Not fooled wife: “You’re being over dramatic again. You do that every time you don’t tell the truth. You think I look fat, don’t you? I’ll show you fat! How about a fat lip?!
I’m a lot older and a lot wiser now. Older means, my cat-like reflexes are not what they used to be. Wiser means, I try to take a step or two toward the door before I give her my answer.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and no… my wife is not that bad. But I’ll be willing to wager, there is not a man on this planet with a wife or a girlfriend, who has not been in that situation.
Where am I going with all this? I’m going to a conversation I had with my vision of love and beauty, where the shoe was on the other foot:
Wife: “You need to flip the mattress.”
Me: “Huh? We’ve had if for a year. We can’t make any money on it now.”
Wife: “No. I mean turn it over.”
Me: “What for? It’s comfortable the way it is.”
Wife: “It has a divot on your side.”
Me: “A divot?”
Wife: “Actually, it’s more like a crevice, or a crater.”
Me: “What are you trying to say?”
Wife: “Nothing. The mattress needs flipped. That’s all.”
Me: “You’re saying I’m fat.”
Wife: “No. I’m not.”
Me: “You’re saying… my fat ass has put a crater in the mattress.”
Flustered wife: “No. I just—“
On a roll me: “You’re saying… I’m so fat, I make memory foam forget.”
Out of options wife: “UGGH!”
She stomps out of the room, and I stand… victorious, in the gladiator arena, raising my imaginary sword to the emperor as the throngs of spectators chant my name…
Ronicus Gluteus Maximus!
I go to the fridge, grab a cold one and make my way to the recliner. Half way through Sports Center, I realize that I’m going to need some help flipping that mattress. It’s a king size, and kind of heavy. Hey, where else would a fat-ass like me sleep?