Generally speaking, women don’t tend to be hardcore fans of the word “old,” or even “older.” So, to play it safe, I’ll avoid using the words at all here. Also, my wife reads my posts and to be honest I hate being responsible for making her cry. I’m also pretty partial to my testicles remaining attached to my body, so you’re going to have to suffer through some word workarounds and blackouts.
My Secret Identity
My wife was born before I was. (See how clever that was? Still, wish me and my two-piece set of man marbles good luck.)
One night, years ago, before we were married, I was brushing my teeth and she asked me if I thought she looked [CENSORED]er than I did. That’s precisely when I decided to reveal my secret identity as the dumbest man this world has ever known.
I shrugged and said… “yeah.”
I said it casually, because she did get a head start on me at being born, and also because I had no idea I was about about to die. A million times. Her sobbing let me know I could take a break from my dumbness and begin my millions of deaths.
So yeah. Some girls can get pretty touchy about their age. Freakishly though, this apparently doesn’t stop them from inflicting the Age Guessing game on hapless dolts like myself. I’ve seen it played countless times.
“How [CENSORED] do I look?”
However it’s asked, “How [CENSORED] do you think I am?” or “Can you guess my age? Tee hee!” None of these are questions! Don’t let the tee-hees fool you, these are commands. And what they are ordering you to do is to spin the wheel, say a number and then experience a fury that Hell ain’t got nothing on.
Ever since the “yeah”-of-a-million-deaths, I’ve refused to play this game. I won’t go near anything having to do with women’s ages. Not even girls. Or babies. I just never spin that Wheel of Misfortune. Except this last time…
My Last Spin
A few months ago, I happened to be in a conversation with a large group of writers. All women. (You can almost hear the whistle of the imminent train wreck, can’t you?) I caught one woman say something like “thirty-eight” and noted the consequent grunts of disapproval.
Then it was put to me. “How [CENSORED] do I look?”
After refusing for five minutes, even mentioning my deep-seated aversion to castration, I finally caved. Why, you ask? Why’d I cave!?! BECAUSE I’M A MORON!!! But further than that, because I thought I was safe! Like I’d gotten the tip-off of ages! Thirty-eight got that reaction, ::deep breath:: so I knocked eight years off and said, “Thirty?”
::BUZZER OF ULTIMATE FAILURE::
I couldn’t believe it! I overshot it!?! Her smiling face fell into very graciously concealed hurt. It turns out, of course, she was much younger. My eyes searched the crowd wildly for the woman who had pulled the pin on the misleading thirthy-eight grenade and tossed it onto my marble collection. Then I proceeded to break a land-speed record back-peddling, saying desperate things like, “No way! Heh! How could you be so young—heh heh!—and have accomplished so much and be such a great writer!?!” CTRL+Z CTRL+Z CTRL+Z!
I was so flustered, I really don’t remember much immediately after that last spin of the Age Guessing Wheel of Misfortune. I may have said to the air, “Pat, I’d like to buy a vowel and a cyanide capsule, please.”
Never again. NEVER!
At least not until the next time.
–The Dumbest Man this World Has Ever Known -aka- Andy
Like us on Facebook and I will never guess your age. NEVER!!!
Probably best if I just make pictures and don’t say anything.