Years ago I diagnosed my husband with "Foot-in-Mouth" disorder. Perhaps your partner has the symptoms too. It is characterized by the inability to filter ideas in one's head, so that every inappropriate thought comes spilling out of the sufferer's mouth, causing the sufferer to frequently "stick his foot in his mouth."
My husband has a particularly bad case, but that's okay -- I knew this before I married him. During one of our early dates, right before Valentine's Day, he asked me if it would be all right if he got me roses after Valentine's Day, because they'd be cheaper then. I chose to view this glaring error of etiquette as a sign that he was a good provider, and careful with money.
When I was 9 months pregnant and we were shopping for a Christmas tree, my husband spoke this jewel of wisdom: "Honey, why don't we get a short, fat Christmas tree this year! We'll get your picture taken with it! It'll be hysterical!" Needless to say, that one will never be forgotten.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when "Foot-in-Mouth" disorder reared its ugly head again a few nights ago. My dear hubby was reading his email, and he snorted with laughter, got my attention, and said, "Honey, you have to hear this! It's hysterical!" Speaking through the chuckles, he quoted the following statement:
"Women marry men expecting them to change, and they don't. Men marry women expecting them not to change, and they do."
He looked at me eagerly, waiting for affirmation of the quote's brilliance and hilarity. I furrowed my brow. "So, what's funny about that... exactly?" I probed. "Well," he said,"you women expect us to change, and we don't. And we think you're always going to look the same as the day we married you... but you don't."
"Really?" I replied, with a thoughtful look. "Exactly what would you say changes?" I asked, being careful to keep my tone non-threatening. He said, "Well, you just look different. Things start to go south and stuff."
AHA!!!! Now he was in trouble. My face rearranged itself into an icy glare, and he suddenly realized he had been outmaneuvered. I was hunting him now, like a lioness stalking a wounded gazelle, and he cowered in the manner of a dog that regrets having just pooped the carpet.
"What...exactly...and be specific...has gone south?" I demanded. He panicked. "I don't know! I wasn't talking about you specifically!" He was desperate to avoid digging himself any further into the massive stinkhole he had created.
"Oh, really?" I was staring at him like I was trying to melt the flesh off his face... and it was almost working. He cracked. "Well, you're always wearing those weird sleep bras, and when I ask you why you're wearing a bra to bed, you tell me you don't want your boobs to be sitting on your ankles!! So what am I supposed to think?!"
I was upset now. "Well, I'm just trying to prevent them from going anywhere, okay?!! I want them to stay where they belong! I mean, it's not like they're that different than they were before we had kids!" All lies. Truthfully, breastfeeding killed them, leaving flaccid, empty baggies hanging where there used to be perky mounds.
My hubby nodded enthusiastically anyway, agreeing wholeheartedly with anything I was saying at this point. After all, he knows a crazed female when he sees one.
I sulked quietly, and he took my silence to mean that the conversation was over and the matter had been settled. He announced he was heading to bed and went upstairs. I followed a few minutes later, still fuming.
I settled in bed next to him, sighed audibly, and opened the book I was reading. He tapped my arm and said, "So, are you up for some nookie?"
Pregnant pause... I took a deep breath and struggled to stay calm.
"No." I said through clenched teeth. "My sad, saggy boobs are just too tired."