Why Chicks Need Romance
February 15, 2008
Women are the most powerful beings in the universe. We men run the world with brute power, show me a nail and I’ll hit it with my unga-bunga hammer. But the chicks have the power to get the man to hit the nail for them. Less energy used, multiple disciplines employed, the weaker sex is stronger.
My pool guy just told me he’s sending his wife an E-Card for Valentine’s day and that after 18 years of marriage they agreed not to exchange gifts. No wife is okay with this. She’ll say it’s okay, but tomorrow morning when she makes the pool guy’s eggs and bacon, they will be made with a little less flair, a little less care and on and on throughout the rest of their lives. Perhaps she’ll even send him an E-Fried-Egg instead.
My Beloved is pawed by our four-chick brood all day. We laugh how our kids have taken on all of our dialogue. Six years of telling my daughter, “Don’t you dare do that.” has sunk in deep because now I hear her bitching at her little brother, “Don’t you dare do that.” As my Beloved makes her way through the day she participates in about fifty insipid, conversations with four kids under six. They baby doesn’t even say anything to her, he just grabs her by the teet and pretty much demonstrates the whole of their relationship so far.
Then there’s me. I hope I don’t need to go into detail about the way I see the only woman I’m allowed to have sex with on the planet. I’m a man and I look at her very much like a man…if you know what I mean.
So her kids treat her like a mom all day, all week. And I treat her like the object of my desire most of the days, all week. Where is my Beloved in all this? She no longer exists. She’s invisible. It’s why she is thinking of the spa, getting a back rub, tripping to France or watching the food channel about the same amount of times during the day that I’m thinking about sex with her.
Thus, the invention of Romance. I’m not sure if God invented it or if it was the French, but there certainly ain’t a lot of romance going on in Darfur right now. Men are having sex with women, they are having babies and being mothers but there isn’t romance. Romance is generally a luxury. It’s the last thing that shows up after everything else is taken care of.
One of my favorite Concentration Camp stories is by Yehuda Nir in his book “The Lost Childhood”. Yehuda is the father of one of my good friends and I got to meet him in New York, my hand trembling with respect. Yehuda tells this great story about when he was thirteen years old being shipped off on a train to a Nazi concentration camp. He glued the skin of his penis down trying to look like he had more foreskin. But he’s on this train and he ends up cradled against an older Jewish girl who is “presenting herself” to him. Caked in human feces, starving, buckled over in a train car moving from death camp to camp and there’s a young boy having sex with a girl. He lost his virginity right there.
Valentine’s day is the one time that we take care of romance first. Not after the kids are put to bet, if it’s convenient, the flowers are a lock. It’s done. She gets romance because today, she is a goddess. She’s not the object of my sex, not first anyways. She gets a card, as sappy and beautiful of a statement as I can manage inside. She gets dinner.
My Beloved should get the star treatment more often. She has that coming, but she probably won’t get to look forward to it quite like the ladies can expect the goods on Valentine’s Day. Tonight she is not the mother of our children first. She is a beauty shrouded in beauty nestled in beauty on a throne of beauty lifted high.
And none of this works if I do this because she needs it. She does need it. But I give her romance because she deserves it, because I want to do it. Because we can’t afford it. Because it has no practical material value. Because it makes no sense to mankind, children or animals.
Happy Valentine’s Day my Beloved. You probably won’t read this, and that’s part of the romance of these words.