You are all women to me; that, as I understand it, is the nature of marriage. However you endure me is how I’m withstood by the feminine gender, so wear the pink pants for me, if you don’t mind, you know the pants, it’s what I’d have all girls and women do, and look back at me over your shoulder in the way that makes a silhouette of your one breast (your three-billion-breasts-in-one), and in return I’ll, in return I don’t know what I’ll do until you tell me; it’s up to you. And no shirt, if that’s okay. You want the vote, I know, you made that clear, you marched for that. You appear to want to be consulted, not merely informed, on issues that don’t concern you, why I’m not sure, but you only need to tell me, while you’re in those pants, of course, and I’ll comply. After that, I’m confused, but to that point I’m clear. You seem—I know this sounds implausible—among your curvy and most delectable selves, simultaneously to support competing viewpoints, when what I’m listening for is a single clear word of unambiguous longing. You’d learned, I thought, or ought to have, the perils of leaving me to choose. I’ve taken a poll, the only way I know how, by asking you the same questions repeatedly over the years. The results, as they say, are in. By a small margin, women agree I’m a reasonable if not an overwhelming candidate for marriage, not entirely unattractive, to some degree a provider, faultless?, no, not a box of chocolates: an easy catch. If I had my life to live over, I just, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t put myself through it. Men like me, if my opinion counts for anything.

Copyright © January 5, 2000 David Hodges

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