Another Saturday night, sitting alone, waiting for him to call. I know it’s only 1/52 of the Saturday nights in each fiscal year but still–why does he treat me this way?
“You’ve been ‘neglecting our friendship’? I’d kill you if only the maximum sentence for murder were less onerous than the satisfaction it would give me!”
When we were first swept up in the mad, passionate tidal wave of love, we’d dance the night away–dancing is a low-impact aerobic exercise that results in fewer fatalities per calorie burned than any form of recreation besides bocce, and neither one of us was, or is, Italian!
Then we’d hail a cab and head out to Logan International Airport in East Boston. There, we’d watch planes land together–I mean we’d be together, not the planes–and figure the statistical advantage air travel had over the automobile, when computed on the basis of passenger miles traveled per fatality/dismemberment. God, we were crazy in our flaming youth. Sometimes we’d buy a lousy life insurance policy at the vending machines just for the hell of it, even though we knew that, if we compared the cost per death benefit, we were much better off taking advantage of an employer-paid group policy at our respective places of employment. They’re tax-free!
“My powder puffs are oversized–to prevent injuries!”
I wonder if he’s seeing that little–it rhymes with “itch” and it’s not “witch”–Inez Mae Feldon. Just because she’s 22 years and 6 months and I’m–well, let’s just say I don’t have to plan my 25th birthday party anymore–is that any reason to dump me so unceremoniously? Just because she has four more child-bearing years left in her? Is that all I am to him, a baby-making machine? I mean, I know biologically speaking it’s true, but there’s no need to be so crass about it.
No, I think I’m entitled to be dumped ceremoniously. Dinner and a movie, then a fumbled, awkward parting on my apartment steps along the lines of “Well, I’d better be going. I only have, on average, 50.51 years left to live, and . . . I’m just not sure we’d make it that far.” The cad–the bounder!
“I’d cry, but in the long run–say, 82.42, the life expectancy of a white female in Massachusetts–you’re not worth my tears!”
I could be such a good mother, if only he’d let me! I wouldn’t settle for an average Little League batting helmet–I’d insist on full frontal facial, dental and eye protection, just like the American Society of Pediatric Wusses recommends!
Eine Kleine Chinmusik
Oh, what’s the use! Men have always dumped older women for younger–it’s in their DNA, formed over millenia on the grassy veldes of Africa, then on to Europe or Asia, your choice. Why didn’t anyone tell me that actuaries were accountants without the personality. He swept me off my feet with his statistics! I was young, I was foolish, I . . . knew nothing of the principles underlying actuarial science!
That, basically, all men are jerks.