STORIES FOR A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

Why Women outlive Men

 I woke up late one night to use the bathroom. I needed to pee. Sleepy and with my eyes mostly closed, I slid off the bed, and as it was my habit. I didn’t turn on any lights, and it was pitched dark everywhere, except for the running lights my wife insisted on installing all along the baseboards on the walls for this very reason - you know, those plug-in things that glow in the dark.

I was working mostly from memory, bumping, and stumbling into walls and furniture, but stubbornly refusing to turn on the lights, rationalizing with myself, never with my wife; with her, I am always in agreement. I rationalized that I didn't need to turn on any lights, and I finally got there, bruised, and battered. At last, I finally got to the bathroom.

 Standing at the toilet but still asleep, I had a decision to make. Stand up or sit down. Now you know what happens. Being the man’s man, I made the mistake of rationalizing again, even though my mind was working too slowly to think straight; after all, I was asleep, and rationalizing was not the thing I should be doing at this time. I should just sit down and go for it. But, like an idiot, I tried to figure out if the toilet seat was up or down, even when I knew it was down. Why wouldn’t it not be down? It’s the drill every man knows who is married, and even those with sleepover girlfriends. It is never up!

So, I reached down and pulled up the seat, and then with one eye open to help me aim, I started to pee, but you never really know how good your aim is, and mine was lousy. I panicked, making it worst, and the nicely polished white tiles were all now wet and peed over. And, to make things even worst, I decided that I would clean it up later; I did not want to make a ruckus in the house by waking up my wife. Well, you know what happened. I was rationalizing again — the completely wrong thing to do, but I did it anyway. I worked my way back to bed, lay down, and fell asleep almost immediately, and of course, when I awoke, I had forgotten all about it -- my bathroom escapade.

Now, here I am sitting and having my morning coffee and reading the newspaper, none the wiser, until my wife comes out, pours her coffee, and sits down across from me. I knew then something was up, "What was it?” I thought quietly.

 She asked out loud, “I wonder who peed all over my nice clean bathroom floor last night?"

I peeked over my newspaper at her, and like all men, half-listening, shrugged my shoulder and responded, “I don’t know, honey.” 

But alas. As I was in the middle of my response, I remembered last night, but too late — way too late. I messed up but couldn’t change my answer and admit that I did it. So, I stayed with the answer I gave, pretending I was innocent, putting up a good manly front. 

She cleared her throat, knowing she had me cold. Knowing her, she probably brought in the FBI, CIA, and even the local sheriff to do her investigation, she said to no one in particular, “Well, unless we have little gremlins in this house, or your son visited us last night . . . “There was a short pause as she stared me down, and as I hid behind the paper, I could feel those piercing eyes of hers burning holes through it. She continued. “It must have been you, baby.”  

I said nothing. I was caught dead, and she didn’t wait for my answer. 

She asked, “And why didn’t you just clean it up? Dammit! I just mopped the whole bathroom, kitchen, hallway, and everywhere else yesterday, and now this morning, you should just sit down and pee, as I do. You don’t see me standing up, do you?” 

I was still, quiet and in my mind, made myself invisible. I rationalized that I should say absolutely nothing. Just let the wind blow over, let the storm end. 

She continued, “You know your hands are shaky, and your aim is terrible. Sit your old ass down and stop being so macho; you not as young as you used to be, you know.” 

I kept on reading or pretending to read as she got up and stormed off. I learned a long time ago, never admit to anything because you never hear the end of it. You do it now, and every time you mess up, you are going to hear what you did twenty years ago. I don’t know how women remember that far back. I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday, or even if I ate breakfast. 

I know most men are that way. I did a poll among all my friends and acquaintances, and none of them remember their wedding anniversary or the date they were married, or even what happened on their wedding night. 

I panic every time my wedding anniversary comes around. I’m always afraid that I will get that question from the inquisitor, or maybe the interrogator. “Honey, when did we get married?” The worst question any man can get, is because even if you know the answer, you’re still in a panic, just because you may be wrong, or it may be a trick question.

I have concluded that men should just stop rationalizing and thinking so much. They should just be as emotional as women and sit down on the toilet seat. We would live as long as women do.

 Eating Tofu

  Let me tell you a story about my eating Tofu for the very first time. I was living in NYC, the big rotten apple. The big apple has been rotten for so long; it has turned full circle, and now it is a butterfly. It is my favorite city. It has the best pizza, the best Chinese food, and the first place I ever ate tofu that tastes like pork chops. 

I loved that tofu. My girlfriend, at the time, was a health nut. She took me to this vegetarian restaurant, and I let her order for me because it was my first time, just like sex. The first time is always an adventure. She ordered pork chops and something else. I can’t remember what the something else was because it was so long ago and I’m too old to remember anyway. It was probably peas and mash potatoes. Usually, this is what you have with pork chops —right? Anyway, we sit there sipping on some wheatgrass juice when the waiter brings us these chops.

The aroma from the food was intoxicating, so I just dug into it with zest; besides, I was hungry. As I ate, I thought to myself. “Hmmmm! This pork chop tastes pretty good, and no bones either.” Pork Chops always have bones, and sometimes the bones are better than the meat. My girlfriend seemed just as enthusiastic as I was about the food, and I thought, “Now she’s a vegetarian. Why is she eating pork chops? And shit, she is tearing it down, big time.” I asked her, teasingly, “Honey, How’re the chops?” 

She looked at me, smiled, and she asked, “Aren’t they good?” 

I replied with my mouth full, “Yes, they are delicious.”  

And still puzzled at her behavior, I asked her another question. I said, “Aren’t they supposed to have bones? I like bones. I like getting that good meat off the bones.”

Man, she laughed at me. She said, “Paul, you know I am a vegetarian. I don’t eat meat.” 

Now, I am confused as ever. What the fuck is she talking about? She is eating the chops as if it is the last meal before her execution, and she is a vegetarian. Frowning, as I put down my pork chops, leaned back in my chair and asked her, “Baby, I know you are a vegetarian, “Why are you eating meat?

She looked at me and smiled; it was the same smile on her face when I first met her. It gave me goosebumps then. I still have them. 

She said. “Well, this pork-chop you are eating — that you like so much— the ones without bones. Baby, this is tofu.”

I fell out of my chair. And that’s how I started liking tofu, and now I eat pork chops without bones.

 At the corner

 I stood at the corner of Park Pl. and Church Street in the freezing NYC winter weather. This part of downtown is notorious for extreme winds, but not today. I was about to step off the sidewalk to cross the street on my way to lunch when I saw her. She was crossing the street also, but walking directly towards me, displaying long brisk strides, typical for walkers in NYC, never casual. I would say that I thought she was about 5 feet, 5 ½ inches tall, and on the slim size, although she was fully clothed, wrapped in a heavy winter coat and a bulky scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.

She wore black gloves to match her black three-quarter coat and tall black boots. By the way, she walked, I could tell that she had bowed legs. They seem to pull her from side to side.

I was on my way to a quick lunch at the World Trade Center, my favorite in downtown Manhattan, but I waited, or perhaps, I was stuck, planted on the sidewalk. She had me stuck. My focus was entirely on her as she headed directly to me with a magazine in one hand and her imitation Gucci bag with long straps hanging from her seemingly square shoulders.

She was looking directly at me, or this is what I had hoped for, and as she stepped onto the sidewalk in front of me, I found enough of a voice to say, “Wait a minute. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

For a moment, she seemed stunned. A quizzical look replaced a light smile on her face. She stopped right in front of me. She looked me up and down, and after a concise moment, she chuckled. She asked, "Do I know you? Or better, do we know each other?"

I was desperately searching for the right answer before she would walk by me and leave me in the proverbial dusk. Clumsily, I responded, “No, but this is an opportunity to get to know you?”

She smiled ruefully, “And what would you like to know?”

“Everything you want to tell me, even your deepest secrets,” I responded.

“Well, that will take much too long, and besides, I am on my way to the dentist.” She declared and continued, “And where are you going, Casanova?” shifting her head from side to side with some sarcasm.”

I laughed nervously, “I am on my way to the WTC for lunch.”

“Lunch date?” She questioned.

“I go there for lunch almost every day. I work a couple of blocks back there,” pointing over my shoulder.

She chuckled. “I work at the WTC. I have never seen you there.”

I responded. “Ships in the night, or is it just ships in the day.”

She laughed at this. “Well, I have to go. My appointment is in ten minutes.”

And now I have a sinking feeling that I am about to lose her, perhaps forever.

I asked boldly, “So, can I come with you. Maybe I can hold your hand while the Dentist is extracting your tooth.”

She laughed again. “No, just for a cleaning, but I can give you my number,” and she proceeded to hand me a card that she dug from her purse. The business card said, ‘Human Resources Manager.’ “Call me later.” She offered, and she was on her way.

I stood there, pinned to the sidewalk as I watch her walk away from me. At least, I had her number, maybe.