What’s on my mind? Shoes. And lies. Whoppers, since you ask, which you haven’t.
Some* men have little or no ability to understand the female brain. I once had a female brain. Today, I have no brain, though I remain happily female. (Pssst! All* men)
The information below is an abstract from my 1952 PhD dissertation, titled: “Men’s Brains? Women’s Brains? The Jury is OUT.” My dissertation has been the basis for numerous court rulings involving spousal stereotyping and murder.
My dissertation has received wide acclaim from ma-ny, ma-ny readers, namely my sister, my best friend, and (erk?!?) thousands of creditors. Allow me to proceed.
I married young - so young that I gummed my vows. Six months later, we were knee-deep in debt, primarily through the desire to buy groceries and enjoy the luxury of electricity. We were living pay check to pay check, which is where my treacherous tale of deception begins.
(See Chapter XVII of my dissertation (The Innocence of the Male Brain v. The Cunning of the Female Brain).
I was working for a bank; he was studying to become an accountant (which, for those simpletons who have never met an accountant, is the very boring study of accounts).
Each of us would fail in our chosen fields for the silly little reason that neither of us understood the magic of math. This guaranteed we would soon be broke.
Each of us would fail in our chosen fields for the silly little reason that neither of us understood the magic of math. This guaranteed we would soon be broke.
On my money-saving paper-bag lunch break, I spied a pair of red-and-white basket-weave stiletto-heeled shoes (not made from actual baskets, which don’t conform to the female foot as well as basket-weave shoes). These were in the window of Sears’ Spring display, next to the faux rabbits and faux pastel eggs.
I had never seen shoes like these, except on rich womens’ feet. These shoes were made of exquisitely soft Italian leather rather than the sweaty plastic of the two pairs of shoes I owned. All I wanted was to touch them and hold them and keep them close to my body. But this isn’t about sex.
I bought them, stuck them under the bed (I repeat: This isn’t about sex), and removed them from their hiding place three weeks later. When my then-spouse saw me do it, I didn’t even have time to use the “What? These old things?” excuse before he began screaming and I morphed into the little girl I still was.
“Where did those shoes come from???” The obvious answer was Sears, but instead, the cunning of the female brain kicked in.
“I won them in a dance contest on my lunch break at the bank,” I said, a lie that came easily to the tongue.
He stopped, mid-tirade, not anticipating this answer.
“You did?” he asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” I said, with the practised demeanor of a con woman.
“O-kaaay,” he said, backing off. No questions about size, fit, style, the likelihood of a dance contest in the staff room of Swanky Bank, or even how a male contestant might have reacted to winning a pair of red-and-white basket-weave Italian stiletto-heeled shoes.
These little sticking points had just never occurred to him, which was a very good thing for me. Not to mention that I don’t know how to dance, have never known how to dance, and never will know how to dance. Sad, but true.
This, Sis and Bestie, is a cautionary tale.
Women! Up your game! If you don’t currently work for Swanky Bank, I suggest you apply, if for no other reason than the benefits.
Men! By teaching you how to think like a woman, my “Think Like a Woman, Act Like a Guy” pamphlet will save you the humiliation of this and many similar situations ($14.95 US. VISA, Mastercard, AmEx, and money orders accepted).
© Nicole Parton, 2019
