My wife has recently hinted that I am not in touch with my sensitive side. She recounted two recent events. I do not get her point. See if you do.
We were out to dinner with another couple last Saturday night. We were talking about the other couple moving to another home.
The husband addressed me and said, “I hope you won’t think less of me, but I cried when we left that house.”
Apparently, he wondered whether I understood how he felt. I do understand his sadness at leaving that beloved home. What I do not understand is why he would admit to me that he cried. T.M.I. — Too much information!
I was about to mentor him a bit concerning the inadvisability of sharing his emotions when Sugar squeezed my leg under the table. She can read my mind. So, I shifted to a different take on the topic.
“You wept?” I asked.
“Like a baby,” the man confessed.
“Well, the shortest verse in the Bible is: ‘Jesus wept.'” I thought that would comfort him as well as display my knowledge of Bible trivia. Then I changed the subject.
“Did you see Peyton Manning headbutt that Houston linebacker who put Wes Welker out of the game with another concussion? That sent a message. His teammates love that leadership even with a 15 yard penalty for taunting an opposing player! I loved it!” Now we were on a subject I could enjoy. There is, as you should know, no crying in football. Baseball either.
Today we were at The Forks getting ice cream. More specifically, I was getting a cone. Miss Sugar refrained. She is careful to maintain her figure as my hot trophy wife. The lady behind the counter knows us as frequent customers. She too calls Sugar my hot trophy wife.
“Are you here for your regular — Jack Daniels chip in a waffle cone?” She already knew the answer.
“And what will your hot trophy wife have?”
Sugar answered for herself. “I would not be a hot trophy wife if I ate too many of those, so I better pass.”
Two bearded young men were waiting in line. One of them asked about Jack Daniels chip. I guess he wanted to emulate me. I respect that.
I told him that I recommend it. I teased that sometimes sissies order mint chip or even caramel sea salt. We smiled at each other knowingly.
I said to his buddy, “I apologize for denigrating those who choose other than Jack Daniels, but it looks like you two are seeking guidance about the ways of the world.”
Sugar watched their puzzled faces. Helpfully, she instructed, “Denigrate means to put down.”
We went outside to sit on the porch swing as I ate my cone and Sugar watched me eat my cone with adoring eyes. In hindsight, I regret not offering her a lick.
We then walked to our vehicle, which was parked next to a Nature Conservancy pickup, and in the pickup were the two young bearded men.
“How do you like the Jack Daniels chip?” I asked the rugged man in the driver’s seat.
He could not meet my eyes. Sheepishly, he said, “I was hoping that you would not see me eating my cone here in the truck.”
“What, pray tell, did you get?” I tried to not look judgmental.
“I got cookie dough ice cream.”
The silence was uncomfortable.
The young man in the passenger seat broke the tension.
“I got Jack Daniels,” he cheerfully reported.
What a fine young man! He gets it.