At Least They're Committed

Christine was dating Tigger — we call him Tigger because he made his own Tigger costume and wore it to our Halloween party. And although we both knew he was not The One for her — he didn’t like sunshine nor spending money — she was stunned into silence when he stood in front of her in her lovely Denver loft and summarily dumped her. But what was even more stunning was after telling her he no longer wanted to see her (a tad awkward since we all worked together) he dropped to his knees weeping, belowing, sobbing so hard he quickly fell forward, limp with grief, to his elbows as well.  In shock, she watched him flop around the floor wailing and gnashing his teeth for a minute or two before helping him to his feet, telling him, really, it was OK, then shooing him out the door. She called, near tears, and told me what had just happened.  We paused. . . . “Huh,” I said. And in unicen we burst squealing into laughter, uncontrollable, unyielding, unstopping for several minutes, reaching into days whenever we’d see each other at work, then into months over drinks and now into years. Yes, she was hurt, but what the fuck??? He seems to have confused ass-Holiness with martyrdom.

Obviously, being tough, strong, verile and bad-ass has nothing to do with having testicles and I long ago came to the conclusion that telling a man to ‘grow a pair’ would be the antithesis of what the saying intends.