Do you know what your problem is?

Aside from ending a sentence with a preposition, I know exactly what my problem is: I don’t think I have a problem.

A single girl in her late twenties got into this introspective discussion with me last night. I find most people are either oblivious or hyper-critical about themselves. It’s easy to identify which applies by how the person reacts to other people. Women tend to be hyper-critical and men tend to be oblivious. Pity. Then again, maybe that’s Nature’s balance. Imagine the circus, if both genders were oblivious.

Men have such huge egos, we have a hard time pointing out flaws. A typical response I have given is “My problem is I’m too picky.” That’s not really a flaw, now is it? It’s like saying “My cock is too big,” “I’ve run out of space in my trophy cabinet,” or “I can’t decide whether to buy the Ferrari or Maserati.” Yet, when it’s turned around on the woman, she goes straight for the obvious.

“OK, so what do you think your problem is?”

“Well, I’m an independent single mother who doesn’t need someone to take care of me, and I have a big ass.”

“That’s not a problem.”

“Which part?”

“The ass. Women are supposed to be curvy.”

“You’re kind. So you think my independence is my problem.”

“Can we talk about your ass some more?”

“No. Why is my independence a problem. Is it intimidating?”

“Men have the instinctive need to protect and provide. You’re disarming us.”

“So you prefer a weak, needy woman.”

“… with a great ass.”

“Great or big? Oh, and you’re stupid.”

“Thank you. Big can be great.”

Then she redirected the questioning to my less-perverted pal. He’s ten years younger and not quite as jaded. Still, my protege is skilled at the fine art of harmless self-criticism.

“You’re turn. What’s your problem?”

“The last three serious relationships I’ve had were with amazing women. They raised the bar for my next lover.”

“So, you’re picky too.”

“Yep.”

“This isn’t working out as I had hoped. You don’t have any body issues? OCD? Addictions?”

“Not really. I work out often, I prefer a tidy home, and I’m addicted to nice cars.”

“Ugh.”

I don’t know how you ladies put up with us.

“Let’s try another exercise: guessing what’s wrong with strangers we see. What do you think is wrong with Miss Balloon Tits over there?”

“We’re probably going to differ on the breast evaluation.”

“Please. They’re too big for her body. Oh, and she has that older-woman droopy ass.”

“Not seeing it. Her boobs look like fun, and a slightly underslung ass is acceptable. Now, this fellow over here–with the Hawaiian shirt, gray ponytail, and leather mandals–needs his vision checked.”

“Ah, but he’s with a woman.”

“Then she needs her vision checked. Or, maybe she wants him to look ridiculous to keep other women away.”

“You’re so jaded.”

“Yes, that’s my problem: I’m jaded. No church, therapy, or romance novels will unjade me. The only thing that works is tequila. Time for a refill. Would your great ass like another?”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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