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Broke Wife, Big City
The real battle
of the sexes
By Aprill Brandon
No matter how strong your relationship is, there will come a time when
your love is put to the test. And this moment will come when you least
expect it. It could be next Tuesday.
Or a Saturday two months from now. But it will happen. And it will
happen right before dinner time. And it will go down just like this:
MAN: What do you want to eat?
WOMAN: Oh, I don’t care. Whatever you want.
MAN: Pizza?
WOMAN: Except that.
MAN: Burgers?
WOMAN: Or that.
MAN: Sigh. Chinese?
WOMAN: Nah.
MAN: What. Do. You. Want. To. Eat?
WOMAN: Whatever is fine.
MAN: *primal man scream*
WOMAN: Why are you freaking out? It’s just dinner. Pick something
already.
MAN: Fine. Italian.
WOMAN: Ugh. We just had that three weeks ago.
MAN: *bangs head on steering wheel until unconscious*
Why do women do this? More importantly, why do so many women do this?
Did we all get together at a super secret meeting and decide to do this
as punishment until the female-male wage gap is closed?
Ha Ha!
That’s none of your goddamn business.
The point is, many, many females are guilty of this. I’m one of them.
So, while I can’t speak for all women who do this, I can try to explain
why I have done this.
See, this whole awful carousel ride from hell revolves around the fact
that what I really want to eat is tacos. But YOU have to suggest it so
that the calories don’t count. Because female logic. (This logic is
also telling me that maybe you will suggest something better than
tacos. But you won’t. Because what I really want is tacos).
Still with me? No? Alright, let me break it down for you. See, I can’t
just SAY tacos. Because today I’ve already eaten scrambled eggs,
sausage, THREE pieces of toast, a gyro, half a bag of peanut M&M’s,
three chicken nuggets off my toddler’s plate, seven of his French
fries, the rest of the peanut M&M’s, and a gigantic tub of
Starbucks frappuccino that is basically caffeine-infused, semi-melted
ice cream.
So, clearly, I can’t suggest tacos. Because I should eat a salad and
run five miles instead. But I don’t want a salad and I don’t want to
run five miles. I want tacos. But, again, I want YOU to suggest tacos
and then I will reluctantly go along with it, much like a hostage
forced into a cheesy, melty, crunchy corn shell prison I have to eat my
way out of. That way none of the blame can fall on me. Because I’m
already feeling like a Fatty McFatterson and society has told me since
practically birth that the worst thing a white woman like me can be is
fat.
And yes, I know I’m being ridiculous. Of course I’m being ridiculous.
But why can’t YOU just hurry the hell up and suggest tacos already?
So, to sum up, what do I want to eat? Tacos. Which I will never, ever
admit. Because regardless of my size, I will always feel guilty when it
comes to food. Which is why I have to do a series of infuriating mental
games in order to eat in peace. Which is why I will shoot down every
single suggestion you make until you finally land upon tacos or we both
of starvation.
And which is why, while you think asking “what do you want to eat?” is
the simplest question in the world to answer, to me it’s loaded with
deep, dark psychological land mines.
Which is why there are never any winners in this particular argument.
Of course, not ALL women do this. I’ve heard many wonderful tales of
females who have refused to give into these ridiculous and impossible
standards of the perfect body ideal and can eat food without guilt and
self-loathing. And if you happen to find one of these ladies, one not
hung up about food, hold onto her. HOLD ONTO HER AND NEVER LET HER GO.
Buy her tacos and feed them to her like a servant feeding Cleopatra
grapes.
And then send her over to my house so she can slap my face and tell me
I’m beautiful and to knock it off with this body image bullshit.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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