Thursday, September 06, 2007

The Ugly Matter

Spouse is a very handsome man. In fact, I married him just for his looks and have told him on many occasions that I would throw him out if he let himself go. I am a female chauvinist pig. That is neither here or there. For the last two weeks we have been at war.

He is insisting on wearing muscle shirts around town. I am insisting that muscle shirts are appropriate for the gym and the beach. I might even bend and say mowing the lawn in one would be OK, too. I would not however say that I want to see hairy sweaty men wearing them around town. Spouse thinks his faded, stretched tank tops make him look like an International Male model.
Exhibit A:


I think he looks like a demented fitness guru.
Exhibit B:
Therein lies the crux of the matter. I simply can not let this go. I actually fantasize about taking his muscle shirts out to the patio and using his barbecue grill for more than steaks. It's as if all the little simmering resentments of twenty-one years are boiling over because of those ugly shirts.

Last night I tried to meditate on a solution to this Ugly Matter. In the end I had a dream that God (who looked astonishingly like Morgan Freeman) shook his head at me and said "Girl, you got problems. Put the scissors down and get you some therapy." I blame it on skinny Oprah. She has sucked the militant anger right out of me. That is why I stopped watching her. Fat Oprah would have gone with me to buy the lighter fluid.