I live with a logical man who speaks in logical vocabulary, thinks to himself logically, and espouses logical fact-based opinions often; that is, his posturing takes place about as often as I think intuitively, elliptically, and emotionally. He is the type of man you want when the ship is going down. I am the type of woman you want to party with. He is the type of man who others ascribe to emulate. I am the type of woman who others, well, who others look at with the big eyes waiting for someone to say, “Tag, you are it!!!” and run.
Occasionally we have role reversals. He takes a motorcycle safety course. He buys a lavender sweater. He puts on black leather flip-flops for the first time. I become indignant that there is a mistake on our tax return. I consult an Atlas.
I register a big negative at the motorcycle safety course which seems to me an oxymoronic title. I buy more life insurance for him. I wonder if the flip-flops will hurt him between his toes and so it goes.
These two parallel cognitive universes have co-existed, co-habitated, and co-llided for over 40 years.
We have both practiced patience throughout that expanse of marital bliss and blissters; he, by knowing intuitively that he is right; I, by logically asserting my right to intuition.
Last night, we had a collision of sorts.
We’ve been on vacation for a number of days and arrived home to bills, the dog, weeds, the cat, and an empty refrigerator.
He enjoys himself on vacation having tropical drinks loaded with umbrella power and he orders dessert at every meal.
I show tremendous moderation and will-power on vacation, worrying that the scale will speak out loud when I return.
We returned. The scale, like the swaying palms which sound like rain when brushing each other, spoke.
Shock. We didn’t gain much weight. He is emotionally elated. I am factually concerned.
He, self-satisfied, drops into bed, not unlike a large cedar tree falling to earth.
The fact-based me lies there, suspicious.
He rests his weary large limbs and is just about to drift into a deep compostian sleep when I observed, ” The scale is working perfectly; it’s just inaccurate.”
So much for the facts.