Everything is as it should be except for one, tiny thing: It’s not the way you want it. It takes a strong person to detach. Can you do it without becoming a dial tone? You can express happiness and sadness in bursts without suffering physical effects. Stress and frustration are killers. The healthiest option is to care—just not too much.
Women care deeply about friends, family, pets, and TV characters. Men care about sports teams, gadgets, the stock market, and getting laid. Therein lies the disconnect. Women can’t understand why men care about a preseason football game more than who’s the favorite to win Dancing with the Stars. Men are dumbfounded by why a girlfriend’s career move matters when the new iPhone is coming out.
The simple solution involves teamwork.
“Honey, we don’t have enough individual compassion to care about everything, so here’s where teamwork is required.”
“OK, shoot.”
“Let’s have a mock draft of who and what we care about.”
“But I don’t care about drafts.”
“Damn it. All right. How about a rose ceremony?”
“Interesting.”
“We each have twelve roses to hand out to things we care about.”
“This sounds like fun. I’ll pour some champagne with floating berries.”
“I don’t care about champagne, and fruit belongs in pies.”
“Jesus. Fine, how about two plastic cups of Coors Light?”
“Now we’re talking.”
I’ll spare you the dramatic music and pauses (I fucking hate them) as well as the yeast infection commercials between picks (only a fan of brewer's yeast). It went down something like this:
Woman’s draft:
- Dog
- Sister and Parents
- Rhianna
- Vogue
- Trip Planning
- Shoes
- Purses
- Her Shows
- Bathtub
- Scan Pan (Shit, I wanted that one.)
- Her Friends
- Appointments
Man’s draft:
- Cliff Lee
- iPhone
- NFL Redzone
- Topless Jeep
- Playboy Channel
- Steak
- Beer
- Happy Hour
- UFC
- Sex
- Baseball Mitt
- Sneakers
See? Problem solved. OK, there’s one important step to add: We each need to respect the other’s right to not give a high-flying fuckity fuck.
“Honey, listen to this new Rhianna song.”
“No.”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s a great song. Here, I’ll play the video.”
“No. I’m not looking.”
“She’s hot.”
“Define ‘hot.’”
“She’s mocha with legendary glutes.”
“Press play.”
“What do you think?”
“Meh. Somewhat catchy, but I’ll not trade my mitt for her. You keep her. Your turn. Taste this microbrew I picked up. It was on sale for ten dollars a six-pack.”
“Ten fucking dollars?”
“Stop. Just taste it. Here.”
“Yep, it tastes like beer—just like the four-dollar versions.”
“Aren’t you picking up hints of earth and apple?”
“Aren’t you picking up hints that no beer is worth ten fucking dollars.”
“Fine.”
Who gets drafted onto your “to care” list and who sits lonely on the sideline like the last kid picked for the kickball team? (I’m still scarred by that shit. Maybe that’s why I don’t have children on my list. Third graders are heartless pricks.)
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