Kelly and I were sitting around Bachelor Girl HQ doing what we do (share), and this topic came to light. Kelly and I share what is going on in the world, how crazy all you people are and in what areas she/we can mine that craziness to create witty, poignant commentary to brighten your days. And believe me, there are plenty of the crazy ones out there. It’s remarkable Kelly doesn’t post three times a day.

The topic of The Guy came up. I have met The Guy, and he is a really good Guy. I am so happy for both of them. They truly are the yin to each other’s yang, even if they haven’t figured out yet who’s the yin and who’s the yang. But she shared a story with me that further intimated to me that The Guy really is one of the good ones by way of his interest and concern during a recent moment of trepidation faced by our Kel.

It reminded me of, well, me and how I would’ve handled a similar situation had it arisen with my wife, Angie. In approximately one month, Angie and I will celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary. Sixteenth! In this day and age where banal talking heads like to tell us that over half of all marriages end in divorce, I say Bah! You are pretty close to grown up when you head down that road, so I don’t want to hear about, “Well, we were so young and didn’t know what we were getting into.” Bulls–t.

I can remember the moment I knew that no matter what happened between us, Angie was who I wanted to be with. Not only that, I needed to be with her and missed being with her when we were apart. She was it. The year was 1993, and we were in the midst of remodeling our very first house. It was a few months before our wedding date, which had been set beforehand; the caterer had received her deposit. It wasn’t going to be a grand affair, but it was going to be proper, and if Angie made it through the ceremony, I would be the lucky and legal man for her.

We still lived with our respective parents at the time, and after work we would meet at this beautiful little house and paint or put up mini-blinds or refinish the hardwood floors. We did it all with Papaw’s help and guidance, of course; we weren’t the Vilas, after all. But back to the story.

I am a man. Make no bones about it. I once fantasized about having a bathroom in my house where the toilet had a basketball backboard incorporated into it, and each time the toilet was flushed the obligatory scoreboard would light up and show Visitors 1 (or 2, given the proper situation) and Home 0. Then a horn would sound and applause would be piped in through the surround-sound speakers. In fact, it is still a dream of mine. I am getting goose bumps thinking about it now…we do have a bathroom due for a renovation, thanks to a leaky roof…

But I digress. The point, again, being I wanted to paint one room a cool color, and Angie wanted to paint the room a conservative, well-thought-out color. Bulls–t. I am the man; I decide!

I was very wrong about that. For a period of probably one full week, we would meet after work at this house and essentially go our separate ways, her to her room to work, me to my room to work. No talking, no comfort and especially no “kissy-face,” if you know what I mean. I was miserable. My life was miserable until my lesser brain finally kicked in and told me, “Son, you know you want to ‘hit’ that (see here for the correct def. of ‘hitting’) again one of these days. Well, a way to do that, in fact, a very easy way to do that, would be to paint the damn room the conservative, well-thought-out color and live to fight another day.” Unbelievable how the male brain really will protect the species.

So I said that I was sorry and that I didn’t want to fight anymore, or ever, and that I would absolutely love to paint the room the conservative, well-thought-out color. Piece of cake; it was even easy, and all of a sudden, this woman that I loved (and love still)’s heart melted, the wall came down and she essentially said in no uncertain terms, “I knew I would break you.” And the room was painted, make up “kissy-face” was enjoyed and that was essentially sixteen years ago. So now I say yes. I say, “Yes, dear,” when I really mean “No, dear,” but I still do it anyway.

The extent of my yessing knows no bounds. I do what I am told, because it’s almost always what’s best for me whether I know it or not. Without these feminine protections, I would be single and live in squalor and people would say, “You know, he used to have so much potential.” And “She was so good for him, it’s a shame it didn’t last.” I would be a statistic.

Instead, I am an extremely blessed and fortunate man that the love of my life has chosen to love me in spite of myself and my lesser brain. She can also use me in humorous ways.

I am a husband that will buy anything at the grocery store. She puts it on the list, by God, she’s going to get it.

One time I went into a store and purchased a tube of lubricant, AA batteries and a disposable camera. That’s it; nothing else.

The batteries were for the TV remote, the lubricant was to get a hinge unstuck (really, it was an old, rusty hinge and Papaw told us to try it) and the disposable camera was for a trip to the lake (we didn’t want to risk our good one falling in).

In my lesser brain, however, the three items were to be used in an entirely different manner involving midgets and rope and…well, you get the idea.

So, Bachelor Girls, get one that you can teach to say “Yes.” You’ll be glad you did, and he’ll also be glad you did, even though he won’t know it.

Your obedient
Chris