Men and women are not so different.
If you agree with the above statement- read on. If you don’t agree with it, go watch Jack Reacher. Fast forward to the bathroom fight scene, it’s awesome.
Now, this isn’t to say there aren’t major differences going on. (The survival of the romantic comedy genre depends on it.) We’re different in that women love wine and we love beer . . they love Orange is the New Black and we love sports . . they love shoes whereas we love beer and sports . . they love Nicholas Sparks whereas we love beer and sports and Nicholas Sparks jokes . . they love Dr. Oz whereas we need to have plenty of beer in us just to discuss his show. So . . yanno, there’s plenty of difference happening in the battle of the sexes. And dammit if the dames didn’t leave us licking our wounds at the end of the last century with the Bradshaw Conflict. They had Carrie and we had Terry. Game, set, nail polish.
If you don’t agree with my painfully simple generalizations, go read Fifty Shades. Skim through to the bathroom fight scene, it’s awesome.
Arguments and breakups are where the sexes tend to join ranks- not in agreement over the particulars but in the overall assessment that romantic relationships can send our verklempt-ometer to DEFCON 1 quicker than just about anything on Gore’s green earth . Our prisms beckon differently but our trajectories are nevertheless parallel on this count, at least in the immediate aftermath.
Me and my gal pal had a tiff recently. I am not going to enlist a point for point on it since I am of the belief that personal shit should only be broadcast on video surveillance cameras (Yes, that’s a shout out to Jay-Z. Go Brooklyn!). Let’s just say it went stupid faster than Shia LeBeouf in a yoga class.
Here’s a ‘lil music mash-up that perfectly describes the temporary euphoria you experience when you walk away from a love thing whilst believing you were right to do so. Be warned, this quirky hopefulness is soon replaced with every single fucking Morrissey song. And wine. Hopefully you don’t live in a high rise when the twain meet . . .
Anyways, while I was breaking up with ‘me lady- and before I realized I wasn’t really breaking up so much as tripping the light phantasmagoria- I had a little time to spare. So I asked the cosmos to provide me some answers. If not for Chinese restaurants, I might still be waiting for a sign. And here is why the men of mars and women of venus ain’t so different after all. Because when push gets to shoving on matters of romance, we run to fortune cookies and advice columns- ignoring the fact that the former are made in Hoboken while the latter really need to be.
I take fortune cookies quite seriously because I have this idea that you should search for life’s answers with the innocence of a child. And so here’s what mine said:
You were right! I would high five you but I’m a fortune cookie wrapper. Reward yourself with a weekend of porn and more Chinese food. And remember, you are the man!
Okay, I took a ‘lil artistic license with the fortune. If you’re curious as to what it really said? Oookay . . .
You will die alone.
Since when did fortune cookie writers get all Sylvia Plath? Chill fortune cookie writers . . . chill.
Seriously speaking, arguments, tiffs and break ups are not a zero sum game, to be sliced and diced in neat little units of sameness. So what did I do with all that pissed off energy? Well, I cursed lots- or, even more than usual. I ate a shitload of junk food and chased it with maniacal runs, yep, so I could curse even more. I even tossed with calling up Vera Farmiga to see if she was ready to run away with me, but I decided it was better to have that conversation in person. Yanno, so I could introduce myself.
And then, right in the middle of all that pissed off energy being loosed like Charlie Sheen dollars at a strip club . . my gal pal called. And then, we turned the tiff into talk and we came to understand that there may be a thousand different ways to connect with a person in this day and age, but a voice still matters most.
And then I said something that vaporized all the pissed off energy I had been carrying for days on end. A simple proclamation to which all that mattered was the here and now, not the then and gone.
I was wrong.
It’s amazing, the alchemy that happens out of three little words; the crazy dichotomy of feeling so completely right about admitting you are wrong. Admitting such a thing may not be ergonomically designed to provide comfort to your prideful posture, but guess what? It’s free. And it’s more liberating than the Expendables in Latin America. So as far as romantic advice goes, I would stick with Fleetwood Mac and fortune cookies. Keep company with the former when things go wrong and crunch up the latter when a certain someone is smiling up the seat across from you.
If you don’t agree with my romantic advice, you should have been checking out the bathroom fight scene from Jack Reacher by now. With nachos and cheese. And beer. But okay . . lazybones, here it is.
And you really didn’t think I was leaving Venus out of my end tap, did you?