Pride and Assumption
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
You look at me, you smile, you arch an eyebrow and wonder whatever possessed me to venture into public with spaghetti sauce on my face. Or to vote in my bathrobe.
I think I read this in your look, but I don’t have to speak aloud to answer. This morning my cat broke a glass in my kitchen, but I was too busy watching Jerry Springer to clean it up. A gripping story of two sisters’ enjoyment of their incestuous relationship. And so what if the candle on your mantle isn’t quite what you had in mind, the air freshener works, although I’m in full agreement that a wider range of scents-for-purchase would suit. All of which is to say that regardless of what you think you read in my eyes, for all you know I’m contemplating the implications of my navel’s relation to the women of professional wrestling.
But back to us, and your look. It wasn’t my idea; you’re the one who insisted an 18-year-old could find commonality with a 23-year-old. You’re the one who thought I’d hang around, and help you chew your cake. You’re the one who thought it perfectly reasonable that a doctor in California, a Buddhist in Las Vegas, a continuing education teacher in Fort Nelson (British Columbia), and a 3 year old hairdresser could choreograph a modern dance number worthy of your attention.
So, go ahead: writhe, howl, moan, decry the decline of chivalry and shake your head at my lack of respect for women’s issues (by the way, your car could use an oil change). Wallow in your confusion, but know that it is your own. Or, swallow a little pride, release some false bravado, and ASK.
I think I read this in your look, but I don’t have to speak aloud to answer. This morning my cat broke a glass in my kitchen, but I was too busy watching Jerry Springer to clean it up. A gripping story of two sisters’ enjoyment of their incestuous relationship. And so what if the candle on your mantle isn’t quite what you had in mind, the air freshener works, although I’m in full agreement that a wider range of scents-for-purchase would suit. All of which is to say that regardless of what you think you read in my eyes, for all you know I’m contemplating the implications of my navel’s relation to the women of professional wrestling.
But back to us, and your look. It wasn’t my idea; you’re the one who insisted an 18-year-old could find commonality with a 23-year-old. You’re the one who thought I’d hang around, and help you chew your cake. You’re the one who thought it perfectly reasonable that a doctor in California, a Buddhist in Las Vegas, a continuing education teacher in Fort Nelson (British Columbia), and a 3 year old hairdresser could choreograph a modern dance number worthy of your attention.
So, go ahead: writhe, howl, moan, decry the decline of chivalry and shake your head at my lack of respect for women’s issues (by the way, your car could use an oil change). Wallow in your confusion, but know that it is your own. Or, swallow a little pride, release some false bravado, and ASK.
