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You are all women to me; that, as I understand it, is the nature of marriage. You tolerate me with grace, as all women do, more or less, so wear the pink pants for me, if you don’t mind, the pants I’d have all women wear, and all of you please walk up ahead and climb the stairs, but do turn back to look at me with your billion eyes, and make a silhouette of one or two breasts each, and in return I’ll do whatever, whenever you tell me. And lose the shirts, please, if that’s okay. You wanted the vote, I know, you made that clear, you marched for that. And you appear to want to be consulted, not merely informed, on issues that don’t concern you, which puzzles me, but tell me anyway, while you’re in those pants, of course, and I’ll consult you. Anything more complicated than that confuses me. For example, you seem, and by you I mean your plural most delectable selves, you seem to support contradictory viewpoints, when what I’m listening for is a single clear word of unambiguous longing, longing for me. Otherwise I’m paralyzed by doubt. I’ve taken a poll, the only way I know how, by asking you the same questions relentlessly since the day we met. The results, as they say, are in. By a small margin, women agree I’m a reasonable if not an overwhelming candidate for serious coupling, not entirely unattractive, to some degree a provider. And that’s supposed to satisfy me. On balance, if I had my life to live over on that basis, I just, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t put myself through it. According to the same poll, the countless men I represent approve of me. If my opinion counts for anything.

Original Copyright © February 05, 2007
Revised Copyright © February 04, 2026