Some concerned the man: Exactly who was he? How old? What did he do? What were his prior relationships? Was he cute? Did he have any unmarried friends? Were they cute?
Then there were the questions for Bernice, the critical one being: What should she wear? Team Bernice settled on a skirt, but then there was the issue of length. It couldn’t be too short, because then Bernice would appear to be trying too hard. But it couldn’t be too long, because then she would appear to be a nun.
After much discussion, coaching, and preparation, Bernice was finally ready to go on her date. But she didn’t really go alone. She was accompanied, in spirit, by my wife and the rest of the team of women sportswriters. In a way, Bernice was accompanied by all the other women who have ever existed, surrounding her in an invisible scented cloud of supportive womanity, rooting for her to find a suitable mate and settle down and replicate and nurture her DNA.
Now consider the guy. Let’s call him The Dandelion. I don’t know him, but I guarantee he did not have a team of guys behind him. And I doubt he did much preparing. Probably fifteen minutes before the lunch his BlackBerry beeped, and he thought: “Whoa! I have a date!” Then he tried to remember if he was wearing the underwear without the ketchup stains.
When Bernice and The Dandelion met for lunch, they did not have the same goals. Bernice may have told herself that it was just lunch, but on some level, she was evaluating The Dandelion’s suitability as a lifetime partner featuring reliability, loyalty, kindness, etc. Whereas The Dandelion, not to put too fine a point on it, was evaluating her gazombas, and probably the gazombas of every other woman in the restaurant.
Go ahead, call him a pig. But remember that without male pigs, there would be nobody to mate with female pigs, at least outside of West Virginia. My point is that The Dandelion, like Bernice, was simply doing what he was genetically programmed to do.
Naturally the date didn’t work out. It’s amazing that any date involving a human male and a human female ever works out. Whatever way the human race came into existence—whether it was through divine creation, or intelligent design, or Darwinian evolution—crack was definitely involved. Our DNA is the Windows Vista of genetic code: The design is faulty, and it doesn’t seem fair to be constantly blaming only one gender for this. Remember that millions of us men manage to overcome our DNA, get married, settle down, and live happily ever after with our wives and never even think about mating with another woman such as—to pick a name at random—Scarlett Johansson.
But getting back to Bernice, and all the other women who’ve had trouble finding a man: Is there any hope for them? Of course there is! If you’re one of these women, remember this: There are literally billions of men on the planet, and the statistical probability is extremely high that one of these men is exactly the right guy for you. So if you’re patient, and you keep a positive mental attitude, and you don’t give up hope, the odds are very good that you will never meet this guy, because he probably lives in some place like Uzbekistan. So you might want to consider Plan B, which is becoming a nun, assuming you’re OK with the longer skirt.
If You Will Just Shut Up, I Can Explain
A Man Answers Questions from Women
R ecently, I started spinning with my wife.
No, you pervert; spinning is a kind of exercise. You go into an enclosed space with other people and mount stationary bicycles and pedal furiously to oldies music until the atmosphere is 93 percent b.o. fumes and you feel as if shrews are gnawing your lungs, but you cannot stop because a spinning instructor with mutant pedaling powers is hectoring you to pedal faster until the end of the song, after which ANOTHER song starts and you must pedal more . This is when you discover how long certain songs really are. “Paradise by the
Then there were the questions for Bernice, the critical one being: What should she wear? Team Bernice settled on a skirt, but then there was the issue of length. It couldn’t be too short, because then Bernice would appear to be trying too hard. But it couldn’t be too long, because then she would appear to be a nun.
After much discussion, coaching, and preparation, Bernice was finally ready to go on her date. But she didn’t really go alone. She was accompanied, in spirit, by my wife and the rest of the team of women sportswriters. In a way, Bernice was accompanied by all the other women who have ever existed, surrounding her in an invisible scented cloud of supportive womanity, rooting for her to find a suitable mate and settle down and replicate and nurture her DNA.
Now consider the guy. Let’s call him The Dandelion. I don’t know him, but I guarantee he did not have a team of guys behind him. And I doubt he did much preparing. Probably fifteen minutes before the lunch his BlackBerry beeped, and he thought: “Whoa! I have a date!” Then he tried to remember if he was wearing the underwear without the ketchup stains.
When Bernice and The Dandelion met for lunch, they did not have the same goals. Bernice may have told herself that it was just lunch, but on some level, she was evaluating The Dandelion’s suitability as a lifetime partner featuring reliability, loyalty, kindness, etc. Whereas The Dandelion, not to put too fine a point on it, was evaluating her gazombas, and probably the gazombas of every other woman in the restaurant.
Go ahead, call him a pig. But remember that without male pigs, there would be nobody to mate with female pigs, at least outside of West Virginia. My point is that The Dandelion, like Bernice, was simply doing what he was genetically programmed to do.
Naturally the date didn’t work out. It’s amazing that any date involving a human male and a human female ever works out. Whatever way the human race came into existence—whether it was through divine creation, or intelligent design, or Darwinian evolution—crack was definitely involved. Our DNA is the Windows Vista of genetic code: The design is faulty, and it doesn’t seem fair to be constantly blaming only one gender for this. Remember that millions of us men manage to overcome our DNA, get married, settle down, and live happily ever after with our wives and never even think about mating with another woman such as—to pick a name at random—Scarlett Johansson.
But getting back to Bernice, and all the other women who’ve had trouble finding a man: Is there any hope for them? Of course there is! If you’re one of these women, remember this: There are literally billions of men on the planet, and the statistical probability is extremely high that one of these men is exactly the right guy for you. So if you’re patient, and you keep a positive mental attitude, and you don’t give up hope, the odds are very good that you will never meet this guy, because he probably lives in some place like Uzbekistan. So you might want to consider Plan B, which is becoming a nun, assuming you’re OK with the longer skirt.
If You Will Just Shut Up, I Can Explain
A Man Answers Questions from Women
R ecently, I started spinning with my wife.
No, you pervert; spinning is a kind of exercise. You go into an enclosed space with other people and mount stationary bicycles and pedal furiously to oldies music until the atmosphere is 93 percent b.o. fumes and you feel as if shrews are gnawing your lungs, but you cannot stop because a spinning instructor with mutant pedaling powers is hectoring you to pedal faster until the end of the song, after which ANOTHER song starts and you must pedal more . This is when you discover how long certain songs really are. “Paradise by the
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