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Fight Night
It was like a scene from wrestlemania in my bedroom last night. Don't get excited. Not that kind of wrestling. There were no slippery-limbed scufflings. No wild gropings of wobbly bits wrapped in Lycra or PVC. And no time-calling, ding-ding girls in micro minis and heels. Even worse, there was no ref. So it's not surprising things fell a bit foul.
Round One - 11.50pm. I get home and he's already in bed. 'Baby, you're here' I say, stunned into stating the obvious. 'I've been phoning and phoning, why didn't you answer?' 'Been sleeping,' he says, eyes closed, head motionless on the pillow. 'Oh,' I say. 'I thought you were still at Rob's - when did you get back?' 'Dunno. An hour ago maybe.' 'Well why didn't you call when you left?' 'Dunno,' he says, eyes still closed. 'Suppose I assumed you'd already be home by, like, 11 on a Monday night.'
He turns over, turns his back to me. The conversation is over. Clearly. His breathing slows and rises to an almost-snore. I make a 'humph' sound, turn and flounce to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Unfortunately, my reaction is wasted. He's too far gone to see that I'm still peeved.
Sigh. Welcome to the weirdest, wildest, crapiest kind of wrestling around. The he-said, she-said, dung-slinging slugfest that only happens within the ring of a long-term relationship. It's a battleground, really. A blood sport. A joke. Why? Because men and women just aren't natural opponents.
Why do you think wars are waged by guys and catfights by girls? Because men like a fast fight followed by an even faster flight (and, in battle if not in bed, bigger is better if you want to get it over with quickly). Women, on the other hand, prefer an unhurried hissing fit and a slow, acerbic scratching out of eyes. Maybe that's why well-evolved men employ the subtle art of avoidance. Just like my man is doing right now.
That's so typical, I fume to my reflection. He just turned over and went to sleep. Won't even stand up and fight like a man. Especially when he's obviously in the wrong and there's so much to talk about. I'm foaming at the mouth now, and it's not just the toothpaste. In fact, I'm limbering up for the long haul.
Round Two - 11.59pm. In the bedroom. 'Baby?' I say loudly. 'Are you sleeping?' 'Sssh,' he says, face scrunched in apparent pain. 'No, I'm not really sleeping. Just playing dead so you'll go off and hunt someone else.' 'Okay, seriously,' I say, eyebrow raised, hands on hips. 'Weren't you worried when you got back and I wasn't home at, like, 11 on a Monday night?' 'Dunno,' he says, opening an eye. 'I thought you were at your sister's.' 'I was. But what if I wasn't?' 'But you were.' 'But what if something had happened to me - a woman driving alone on these treacherous roads.
You just got home and blithely went to sleep without caring - just like you're blithely going to sleep now.' 'I'm not,' he says, eyes closed again. 'You are.' 'Hang on,' he sits bolt upright. 'Were you or were you not at your sister?' 'Yes, I was, but...' 'And where does your sister live?' 'Down the road, but...' 'And do you, in fact, have a mobile phone?' 'Yes, but...' 'So you could have called me, right?' 'Um... I suppose, but...' 'Is that a yes?' 'Um... well, yes.' 'Thank you. And good night.' Sigh. Maybe men live by the old adage, 'He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day'. Or maybe they're just wusses. I don't know. Either way, you'll never see a real male-female face-off in the good, old grunt-fuelled WWE. No, not because she would get pulverized to a pulp, but rather because he wouldn't have the stamina for her kind of scrap.
Anyway, lucky for me my man's better at avoiding than I am at fighting. Perhaps that's why we spend more time loving than we do lunging for each other's throats. Plus, we have way more time and energy for other things. Like sleeping. And that other kind of wrestling.
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