I am a woman. I know that because my driver's license says so. I wear make-up, I use many products in my hair, I generally smell pretty and men who are both toothless and balding give me the "Hey Baby" eye at Wal-Mart. Yep. I'm a woman.
As a woman, I love men. Big ones, little ones and all the sizes in between. Evidence of my appreciation of the male of our species can be found in my bulging scrapbook of marriage licenses. I collect ex-husbands the way other women collect ceramic figurines of kitty cats playing with yarn.
Today I may have inadvertently added another ex-husband to my Christmas card list. It's entirely possible Mr. Man is on his way out the door. Those of you on my roster of potential husbands in waiting should officially consider yourself on standby. Please pack a bag and sit by the phone patiently in case I call.
The date is August 12, 2005. Does that mean anything to you? Well, until a few hours ago it didn't mean anything to me either. To my knowledge, nothing important had ever happened in the history of the world on August 12. If I were on Jeopardy and Alex Trabek said, "It happened on August 12", I would have said, "What is the one day in history when nothing important happened, Alex".
That answer would have gotten me voted off the island, or they would have made me eat gorilla testicles or whatever it is they do on Jeopardy when you are way wrong. Wanna know why?
Because apparently August 12 is the anniversary of the day I married Mr. Man.
Let's all emit a collective "Oooooooooohhhhhh".
I forgot. I so forgot. I mean I forgot in the way you forget something when you have been involved in a tragic head banging accident and you can't remember what vowels are. I didn't even see it coming, kids. It's not like I thought about it last month and just forgot about it today because I was busy. Nope. I smooth forgot.
Wanna know how I was reminded that today, August 12, was the day that will live in infamy? I found a card lying on the coffee table around 10 am this morning. "Hmm," I said to myself, "a card for me. How unlike Mr. Man to give me a card. I wonder what he did wrong?"
Imagine my surprise when I read the words, "Happy Anniversary" on said card. If I were not a woman, my testicles would have sucked up inside my body. I looked up from the card to see Mr. Man staring, waiting on a reaction of some kind.
"Are you sure it's today?" I asked. "Cause I think maybe it's not until next month." That's what I said out loud. On the inside I said, "Way to go, Sher. Not many people in this situation would have gone that route, but maybe you can save yourself by convincing him he is attempting to celebrate the wrong day. This is the same man after all that you convinced to let you pluck his eyebrows."
Let's just say my plan didn't work. He was quite certain about the day he married me. "I have been giving you hints," said the man. "I've even mentioned several times that it was coming."
Again, can I get an "Oooooooohhhhhhh"?
"I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," I said while patting his hand and trying to look cute so he'd forget he wanted to smack me. And then, with a little lip quiver I whimpered, "The truth is, I have a Benedryl addiction that has really gotten out of control and I think I need professional help. Help that will require me to be admitted somewhere that is not here for at least a month. Last week I was so stoned I couldn't remember how to use a fork and my son had to help me tie my shoes."
The Benadryl defense fell on deaf ears.
As I continued to suck up like I've never sucked up before, it occurred to me that perhaps my husband and I had been unknowingly thrust into an alternate universe. Isn't this kind of situation usually played out in reverse? Correct me if I'm wrong, but is it not the husband's job to forget wedding anniversaries?
Maybe I'm not the woman I thought I was, no matter what my driver's license says. Maybe I've gone so far into the menopause zone that I've actually turned into a man. I don't know. What I do know is that I'm going to go to the pharmacy right now to pick up an estrogen filled Pez dispenser. And maybe another twelve pack of Benadryl.
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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