I committed one of the seven deadly sins last week. Truth is, I don’t even know what the seven deadly sins are. But based on April’s reaction, the sin I committed must be number one of all the deadly sins.
It was a Friday night, and we had decided to go out ‘and paint the town red.’ That means a reckless night of debauchery, which neither of us is capable of. So we settled on a vigorous attempt to ‘paint the town magenta.’
After getting spruced up, we climbed into my Avalanche. But first we stopped at a neighbor’s house to drop off something she needed and visit a bit.
As we prepared to leave the neighbor’s house, she said to April, “That new outfit sure looks nice on you.”
“Thanks for noticing,” April replied, perilous dry ice in her tone. “That’s more than my sorry husband did.”
Sorry husband? My fate was clear as cellophane. I found myself aboard the Titantic. No rescue action would work that evening in order to save myself. Buying a 10-karat diamond to go with her new outfit would only irritate her more. Unless I used it to gouge my eyes out. She would find pleasure in that.
Bless the neighbor—she tried to save me. “My husband doesn’t always notice what I’m wearing either.”
Maybe I had found a lifeboat? I looked at the husband, and he smiled. After all, men always stick together. Then he says, “She isn’t telling you all the times I compliment her.”
Every man for himself, huh? I was hopelessly sliding right down the deck into the frigid water below.
Returning to the Avalanche, April and I resumed our date, just the two of us. Alone in the pickup. No referee at all. An applicable rule applies for men at times like this: When you’re wrong, just shut up. Don’t say a word. Forget you know the English language.
But my mind spun like limp spaghetti on a fork. So I ventured a question. “Are you sure that’s a new outfit?”
“No, of course not,” she answered. “I have a sales receipt but what does that prove? I’m obviously a collector of sales receipts.”
When April resorts to sarcasm, it flows as thick as maple syrup. It drenches you, and you feel like a big, stupid pancake.
“Face it,” she said. “You are a big, stupid—.”
Her face trailed off so I tried to help. “Pancake?” Her stare told me I wasn’t even close. Blithering idiot was closer.
Remember, the first rule: Shut up. Nothing. Zilch. Zip it.
But being a forgetful, blithering idiot, I said, “I saw it on the bed before you even put it on. I said to myself, ‘Oh, she’s wearing that again.’”
In case I hadn’t heard me, she repeated my words for my benefit. “Oh, she’s wearing that again. How intelligent. Can you count without using fingers too? Even so, would it have killed you to compliment me?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, yes, I can count without using my fingers. But know, it wouldn’t have killed me.”
Would now be a good time to spring a compliment? Sure, why not. I cleared my throat. “Speaking of ‘killing,’ you’re killing that outfit.” I even chuckled—you know, to lighten the mood.
Her look inferred the darker mood would remain in place. She was still on the dress-compliment thing. “Then why didn’t you?”
Maybe thousands of years ago, a man stumbled onto a good answer for that question, and his wife smothered him with kisses. Unfortunately, he never passed the answer onto his sons, who then passed it onto their sons and so forth until we men in the current year had the answer. We’re still doomed to guess the answer to “Why didn’t you…”
Being a doomed, blithering idiot, I ventured a guess. “Because I’m a man?”
April’s tone lightened. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I had stumbled onto the truth, and I could spend the rest of the evening reveling in that truth. You know, like a consolation prize.