I like to think that I’m a fairly sensitive guy. I may not always pick up after myself, but after twenty-one years I still get the door for my wife. I bring home flowers for her from time to time. I try to be attuned to her needs, listening to her heart (and not just her words).
Sometimes I succeed.
And other times…
You might think I have just half a brain.
What do I mean?
The other week, I had a cold. We’re not talking just the sniffles here, folks. It was a full-on headful of nasties that migrated south. And I don’t mean Florida.
So, I had congestion. That came out in a most disconcerting way. (I’ll leave the details to your imagination). That particular feeling, as it is wont to do, seared itself–in its choking uncomfortableness–in my memory.
That being said, as the cold was winding down, my wife and I decided to go out to dinner.
To Red Lobster (yes, it’s well-nigh impossible to get great seafood in Phoenix–so the Lobster has to do).
I guess that was my first mistake: going to Red Lobster.
My second was asking our waiter if there was anything on the menu he didn’t like. Quite surprisingly, he indicated he wasn’t a fan of seafood! He was either gaming me, or he was being refreshingly honest (I’ll take the latter, Alex, for $500, please)–as events will show.
My third, when my wife asked if she could order raw oysters on the half-shell, was answering in the affirmative. (I guess it technically wasn’t a mistake, as I know she–having grown up in New Jersey–is quite fond of “frutti di mare;” thus I wanted to bless her).
By this time things are going well, we’ve had some delicious, decadent Cheddar Bay biscuits (I swear Red Lobster must put some crack in them–they’re that addictive), our salads, we’ve talked, etc.
Then our non-seafood-liking waiter returns. With my wife’s oysters. In the immortal words of Austin Powers, they (oysters) “are not my bag, baby.” So, as he’s preparing to set down what is to my wife a plate of marine deliciousness, I say (remembering he’s not a seafood guy):
“Oysters, she loves ’em. But they’re not really my thing. Suppose it’s textural.”
Seafood-hating waiter says “I know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you know, I’ve had this cold, and oysters remind me of that sliding feeling in the back of my throat.”
Waiter guy laughs, and goes on about his business. While my poor wife is left there staring at what now appears to be nothing so much as plate of chilled gray boogers!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, score one for Mr. Sensitive!
Those husband points I thought I was earning by taking my sweetie out to dinner, by saving her from having to cook that night? Gone at the speed of sound.
Men, fess up: have you ever done anything like that?
Ladies, how have you reacted in similar situations?