It's weird how girls work. We make up these things in our heads, as though they matter. We define things, actions, words, and place meaning on them that they may or may not have.
We build whole worlds around concepts or ideas.
Take for instance, I LOVE LUCY.
I LOVE LUCY is possibly my favorite TV show of all time. I laugh aloud at every episode. I snort and giggle. I LOVE LUCY,to me, is watching TV at my grandma's where she had floor to ceiling windows with drapes AND sheers, the wind blowing through the sheers as we watched the reruns together. It's the smell of my grandpa's pipe, and the shine on her the cherry wood trim in her living room. Yeah, the wood trim was CHERRY. It was lovely.
I think the show is still funny, and the humor is timeless although obviously some of the settings are quite dated. Shit, Dharma and Greg was wildly popular and that crap wasn't half as well written.
My husband has always acknowledged my love of the show and will put it on for me when it's on. We don't watch a lot of TV together, with our bajillion children, so you know, watching anything together - especially something that warms my heart, is special to me.
He bought me a boxed set of episodes this Christmas even.
So you can sort of see that I've got a big of a mythology built up in my mind around this show. A family-centric love fest in which we all embrace I LOVE LUCY as a worthy piece of entertainment, no less.
Which leads me to the moment this weekend when my husband informed me he didn't like I LOVE LUCY. He just watches it for me.
Is there anything wrong with that? No. Is he a bad guy for that?
No. In fact he is a good guy for it. He watches a show he doesn't really even like, because it makes me so happy. He tolerates something he thinks isn't good entertainment - because it makes me so happy.
This post is, perhaps, the other side of the difference between men and women. Because just as we girls didn't understand my friend and the table pooper.........The Husband didn't understand that not liking I LOVE LUCY was going reduce me to tears.
Because boys think with their dicks but girls think with some part of their hearts that we can't tell you exists until you accidentally step on it.
And then we cry about it.
Pity my husband, please. He lives with a crazy woman.
And pity your husband. He lives with one, too.