Proverbs 19, Verse 13
"A nagging wife annoys like constant dripping."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
Eleven years ago, I took a short girl who squeaked a lot out for Kosher vegetarian Chinese food. Today, she's downstairs on the couch aimlessly trolling Pinterest with her mouth slightly agape, waiting for me to finish this post so we can watch the Olympics together. At this moment, she's also, once again, digesting Kosher vegetarian Chinese food. Yes, I re-created (sort of) our first un-chaperoned date today.
Yes, this is your cue to melt into a dithering pile of estrogen-engopulated goop. Gosh. Wymym.
This post will be short, because, like I said, the Olympics are on, and watching a bunch of athletigods soar through the air wearing Spandex onesies is way more interesting to me than writing a blog post. My wife understands that I "need" to blog, and she supports it. She also is supporting me in my "need" to express myself onstage by flitting and mincing around like some sort of avian abstraction, and is putting her money where her mouth is by giving me her blessing to audition for yet another Gilbert & Sullivan operetta on Wednesday.
(God, I hope I get it. How many Aspergers do they need?)
I love that my wife loves the Olympics. I love that we don't have to have ethical discussions about how Russia oppresses homosexuals and debate about how we're feeding into something negative by tuning in our lowly television set to watch. I'm glad I can plow through snowbanks on poorly-plowed Philadelphia streets as I aggressively blow past SEPTA buses and that I can yell "COCKSUCKER!" without my wife having a fit. She does make hearty use of the Oh-Shit handle, but there is very little chastising, no back-seat driving, no censoring. I'm free to scream what I need to, be who I have to, pass who I've got to.
It's all very refreshing.
Part of the time we spent today was passed bee-bopping around South Street and Bainbridge, ducking into cute little antique and thrift shops. There were overpriced skinny ties and saddle shoes for grown ups (?), blazers with elbow-patches and knurled buttons, glasses your Zayda wore because he had to, not because he wanted to, boots upon boots upon boots after boots, "kooky" acrylic sweaters and those bowls made from old, melted records.
While we noodled and doodled our way around cluttered shelves and knick-knackery, I did what all heterosexual men, happily married or not, do: I checked out women. You know, while looking for that perfect six-button vest. And what I saw was what I saw, and what I saw was what it was. I saw girls who were ugly and girls who were plain, girls who were nice looking, a couple who were hot, and not really much more than that. But the thing of it is-- what I saw were girls trying to pretend they were something, or someone, they were not. Comically oversized glasses, piercings that were pierced, affectations and carefully chosen accessories designed, it seemed to me, at least, to loudly call attention to themselves. Look at me, drinking out of this mason jar, standing around looking affected by nuclear winter. Look at me.
And, you know what? As I mentioned earlier, I looked. Because that's what we do-- that's what I do. But I was never more content, more filled and more fortunate than when I looked across a table at a thrift shop into the eyes of my wife, as she staunched a rampant nosebleed with a pack of vintage Hallmark store $2.40 napkins (they didn't charge us). She's not pretending. She is what she is. And I am so, so grateful for that.
Okay. It's time to go watch the Olympics with my buddy. I hope it's the bobsled. I love that shit.
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