Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: SLIP OF THE TONGUE (01/26/17)
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TITLE: What's THAT Got To Do With It? | Previous Challenge Entry
By Marlene Bonney
01/29/17 -
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After almost fifty years of wedded “bliss,” we have learned all about each other, so I am unprepared for the ensuing conversation. . .
“Wow!” Walter begins, “did you see Sister Vicki this morning?!”
“Oh, you mean her new hair style?”
“It sure is unattractive—I think she looked nicer before.”
“I agree that the dyed blonde makes her look pale and certainly isn’t as striking as her natural color.”
“I liked it better long, too.”
(No surprise there. I think we have exhausted the subject of ‘women have long, beautiful hair to snare a husband, and, before you know it, they cut it all off,’ but apparently I am mistaken. In my late 60’s, I have changed to a much shorter hairstyle the past several years; mostly due to hot flashes that would make it damp and droopy like a wilting flower. Now, it is more of a necessity to keep it that way to cover the thinning holes in my coif. Perm curls camouflage the destruction rather like tar patches on a rutted paved street—Isn’t the aging process grand?!)
“I guess it’s none of my business, though, [Wifely ‘DUH!’ insert] and if he likes it. . .”
“What do you mean, if HE likes it,” my hackles rising.
“Well, you know—John, her husband.”
“What in the world does THAT have to do with it,” now itching for a speech on a woman’s right to be an independent stylist.
This is a little more serious than our usual bickering and bantering over trivial things. I have a theory that this began after our children became adults and moved out. We have empty lapses, not only in our nest, but in our interactions that we have to fill with SOMETHING. I notice this phenomenon in other couples our age, as well, so it must be a common malady.
I tell my husband repeatedly that he will never win in a verbal debate between us, since I seem to be louder and my vocabulary noticeably larger, putting him at a disadvantage. Walter, trying to rise to the challenge like a pistol-carrying greenhorn western cowboy stand-off with an accomplished sharpshooter,
“You know. If her husband likes it, then it’s okay, I guess.”
“Walter! What about if SHE likes it, it’s okay?” nettled, “if SHE likes it, that’s the point.”
“What are you now, Martha—a women’s libber?”
“That’s better than being a male chauvinist pig,” I retort in a funning, but dead-serious tone.
Now, this lady we are maligning is very sweet and unassuming, and I feel it a great injustice for us to be judging her looks, for goodness sakes! Truthfully, however, the subject is no longer about HER, but about Walter and I. By the time we arrive at my brother’s quiet home, I am aching for a chance to bring our debate up to my sister-in-law for her support. It turns out to be easier than I thought it would be. We are commenting on their newly remodeled kitchen and my brother doesn’t like the placement of the new appliances or the pattern of the shorter café curtains.
“That’s the way Linda wants it, but it’s sure impractical.”
“Well, since Brandon only visits the kitchen to let the dog out the side door, I find his comments ludicrous,” the quickest comeback I have ever heard from her.
“Since when have you become so confrontational?” he fires back.
“About the same time you became so controlling!”
(I should mention that Brandon and Linda’s children are now grown and gone, also.)
Linda and I are stalwartly standing at the far end of the kitchen (next to the gorgeous café curtains) while our counterparts hold their hands up in surrender, trying to retreat into the adjoining hallway. Suddenly, Brandon trips over the new rag rug and lunges into the awkwardly positioned refrigerator. The gash in his forehead spurts blood all over the new wood flooring while Linda soaks the dishcloth in cold water and I run to the bathroom for a butterfly suture.
Like dissipating tornados, our arguments die a natural death as we eat a scrumptious meal together in sheepish harmony.
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