The joys of married life and the myriad opportunities for self-improvement
In fairness, criticism,
I know,
it’s just part of life.
I get that.
But bear with me…
Nobody,
except maybe the worst kind of
masochist,
enjoys constant criticism,
never-ending comments
about all the myriad
ways he could/can/should
improve himself.
But most married guys
whether they will admit it or not
know exactly what I’m talking about.
It’s like
women
believe
once they marry us,
that it’s their
duty
to make us
better.
Image courtesy of Joren Aramas, Unsplash
I know that there are men,
Sleeping With the Enemy
and Burning Bed
types of psychos, etc.
who constantly criticize/control/beat
their wives.
Guys who nag and whine and bitch
about little shit
that they should just leave alone.
I know these jerks exist because
I watch episodes of Snapped
on the cable Murder-Stations too.
But these guys,
are the exception,
sub-normal idiots
who generally
get what they deserve.
Whereas,
the normal path of
women/wives to men/hubbies
is for the women
to feel an obligation
to make us better,
and the happier we men
were with ourselves pre-marriage,
the bigger job they feel
they have before them.
Vacation in Vegas, another whole level of FUN, image from author’s personal pics
“Do you want me to trim
the hairs on the back of your
neck so they don’t show
when you wear a
tee-shirt?” She asks,
five minutes after
correcting me for calling the dog a
‘Chucklehead’
because it makes her sad
for me to “call him names”
before, during and after
he’s spent a long, tough day
licking his own asshole —
Rusty Shackleford, wonder-dog and trail guide, from author’s personal pics
but I digress.
The hairs on my neck?
Heaven help my ass
if I answer,
“Funny, it’s like yer a fuckin’
mind-reader,
how’d you know that
as we’re out here
taking this fucking dog
on a fucking walk
(that, btw,
I don’t even want to BE on),
Rusty and Patti, on a walk “I don’t even wanna be on . . .” image from author’s personal pics
that I’d be thinking about/worrying about
overwhelmed with anxiety
and ruminations
about the hairs
on the back of my neck
(and let’s just call that what it is,
the hairs on my back!)
sticking up over the collar
of my tee-shirt?”
But of course,
the guy can’t say that,
nor can he admit
that her asking
sets him to thinking,
about:
‘I’m not even allowed to tell you,
while we sit having
lunch, that
you’ve got a glob of mayo on yer face
about ¾’s of an inch to the
left side of her mouth….
no, the left side of YOUR mouth…
no, the LEFT,
yer other LEFT!
There you go!
Ever hear of a fuckin’ napkin?’
Nope.
Not gonna say it.
Barely even able to lift myself
up off the ground
enough to fuckin’
think it.
“I don’t mean to criticize,”
she says,
“I have to be so careful…
I try to pick my spots…”
In other words,
I’m one lucky guy
in that so far on this walk
it’s only been
these two little,
helpful
hints she’s touched upon…
‘How many more are there?’
you wonder.
But you just keep plodding along
and you
shut-the-fuck-up!
