Do you hate being evaluated and diagnosed for flaws you can’t perceive? If someone has a problem with something about you, it’s her problem, not yours. If he insists you should eat, wear, or do something, he ought to mind his own beeswax.
I receive constant analyses, especially from females who happen to be occupado. They usually do this by talking about me in front of me. Rude! At least when I write my sarcastic generalizations I’m not naming people directly. I protect the guilty by changing the names. These self-proclaimed relationship experts pound away at my psyche without the common decency to do so behind my back.
“Phil’s problem is he has a closed heart.”
“I’m right here! What the fuck does that mean?”
“I’m not talking to you. Would you agree, Sheila?”
“Hm. Perhaps. Somebody probably broke his heart into itsy bitsy pieces.”
“That’s untrue! Hey!”
“No doubt. Now he’s all guarded and alone. He won’t let anyone in because he’s scared. Poor thing.”
“I’m so not fucking scared.”
“I agree. I wonder what she did to him. She probably cheated on him.”
“Ah, yes, complete ego destruction. So, now he doesn’t trust anyone–hence, the recluse and his cats.”
“You leave them out of this.”
“Or maybe it stems from some childhood tragedy.”
“Yeah, he probably left a valentine in a girl’s desk and she laughed about it and tore it up in front of the entire class.”
“Wait … what?”
“He’s probably turned away dozens of women who would be ideal partners. How sad is that?”
“So sad. He’s probably like the rest of the forty-plus men around here who never grow up and waste their time chase young girls around.”
“I love ALL women, not just the lovely, young, firm, tight, unspoiled ones.”
“When will he learn?”
“Maybe never. I can picture him hunched over in the corner of the diner with his morning paper and no companion.”
“Fuck, I do that now.”
“Women shouldn’t waste their time with him anyway. I mean, he’s fit and cute, but not worth the effort.”
“He does appear to have slimmed down and toned up, though.”
“Yeah. Hey, Phil, do us a favor and stand up for a second.”
“We’d like to check your butt out. Lift your shirt too.”
“I’m not ashamed, damn it. Fine.”
“Not bad. Almost time for a trim, I’d say. Grab his ass, Laura, and see if he has been keeping up with his lunges.”
“Sure, let me see. Hm. Decent. Did you just flex your butt, Phil? Admit it.”
“Oh … my … god! I am not a piece of meat.”
“Yes, you are.”
Why do I defend myself? I should ignore the barbs and concentrate on the World Series. What do I care if women think my heart is closed? Damn it. What’s my alternative? Should I bounce around the bar with bouquets of flowers asking ladies to invade my heart and my life? Yuck. Sure, I’m flawed, but at least I can live with myself.
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