Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [19]
Now, with my wife, I know this sort of thing would be unacceptable, so I don’t even try it. I have loosened up my “spontaneous living” demands, and it has worked out just fine. I am willing to pencil in appointments, vacations . . . all sorts of things—weeks, and sometimes months, in advance. I do this for her, but it helps me, too. I actually like knowing we will be renting a house on Cape Cod for the last two weeks of August 2011. In fact, I’m very much looking forward to it!
Let me use a more vivid example with a different fake wife, Betsy. I did not call Betsy after she went in for surgery.
Betsy and I were about six months into our two-year relationship when, right on schedule, I firmly committed to the callous behavior as noted in step two of my formula. I was heading to Los Angeles for a while, and after several days I realized I had not yet spoken to my girlfriend. I wonder how she is doing? I thought to myself one day. I’ll have to call her . . .
This was really not out of the ordinary in the midnineties. Some people forget what long-distance communication was like in the early Clinton years. Not everyone had a cell phone, and making a call required some complicated steps: coins, phone cards, a pay phone not covered in a mucouslike substance. So, we simply hadn’t spoken—for what turned out to be eight days. I would have thought it was a little less than that, but it turns out it was indeed eight.
I picked up the phone and gave her a ring. What the heck, I thought, I will surprise her with my thoughtfulness.
“Hi, Bets . . . it’s me. How ya doing!”
A great deal of silence.
“Betsy, what have you been up to?”
A great deal of silence, then an angry voice from the other side.
“You didn’t call me while I was in the hospital!”
Oh, yeah. Wow. That’s right. The operation. The eye surgery that Betsy was going in for two days after I arrived in L.A. The eye surgery she had been talking about for months, and that she had asked me to consider canceling my trip over. The eye surgery!
Instead of becoming immediately apologetic, I decided the best course of action was to pretend that eye surgery was not that big of a deal.
“Oh . . . wow . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . the surgery. How’d that go?”
There was a sound of a telephone receiver falling onto a bed, then being dragged slowly across cotton sheets, and then a clumsy knocking on the nightstand, and finally tumbling into place in the hang-up position, and then, more silence. Not quite as dramatic as a good hard click and dial tone, but effective nonetheless.
The future of the relationship was in danger. What should I do? I consulted my guy friends and associates for help. Most were married or in relationships and reacted similarly: “Oh, man, that’s bad. It’s almost unforgivable.”
“Start with flowers every day and apologize every chance that you get. It might not work, but it’s worth a try.”
“Get on a plane right now. Get back there and make it right.”
And on and on. I decided to consult with my friend Bryce, a gay man.
“Oh, you poor guy,” he said. “Why is she giving you such a hard time? You forgot!”
Thank you, gay man. You can call gay men all sorts of names and accuse them of being soft and womanly, but they are blessed with a steely reserve that is 100 percent pure male. They have no fear. Why should they? They have never had their male perspective diluted by a woman. The pussy whip has no power over the gay man. He has never had to face it in battle. He is not intimidated—any more than the family of four is intimidated by the medieval mace riveted to the wall next to their booth at Applebee’s.
“You forgot!” said Bryce.
I forgot. You’re damned right I forgot. That would have to do. I would approach my girlfriend with that excuse: I forgot.
I called Betsy and uttered the phrase. To show good faith, I added a little “I’m sorry . . . but I forgot.” And the whole thing was settled. That is how it works in the two-year relationship! And, of course, we were left in the “commitment sweet spot” for