If I am to understand men, then I must first learn to think like a man. Men, they say, think about sex every seven seconds. I think about food every seven seconds. So, if I replace every thought I have of delicious curries and cakes with thoughts of boobies and bums, I can begin to understand what a man goes through every day.
I wake up thinking about food. I go to the gym so that I can eat more food. I look forward to breakfast. Then I’m sad because it’ll be at least another three hours before lunch. My favourite thing to do of an evening is go out for dinner. I like starters. I like main courses. I like pudding.
Now, let me swap all those thoughts for that of a man. Presumably.
I wake up thinking about sex. I go to the office every day, just so people don’t think I’m a weird pervert sitting in my porn-filled room all day. I look forward to seeing that cute girl in the office with the nice bum. Then I’m sad when she sits down because I know it might be a few hours before I see it again. My favourite thing to do of an evening is go to a bar and ogle pretty ladies. I like thin women. I like curvy women. I like all women.
Hmmm. We’re infinitely different, yet comparatively similar.
So now I’ve made this grand simile between men and women, I can claim to understand men. Therefore, I suppose I need to get my head around why the hell my boyfriend can waste six hours straight playing Grand Theft Auto.
What a stupid invention. I mean, who the hell – no, wait, stop. That’s not very understanding is it? Let me try again.
I arrive home and Gareth is playing this game. His eyes are glued to the screen and I doubt he’s blinked in an hour. I say hello, he grunts. I’d sooner win the lottery than get eye contact or even a kiss at this moment. I inquire as to his day. Another grunt.
In trying to understand this alpha male behaviour, as for the next hour all I can get out of him are expletives as he “takes down them bitches and ho’s”, I have to remain calm. More often than not during the course of learning to live with a partner, I have not remained calm, but rather had a mini tantrum and demanded that he turns the damn thing off or risk losing me forever.
But that only serves to make me feel like a nagging wife or mother, and that won’t do. Hence my venture to enter into his head space and understand him.
It happened quite by accident, my sudden understanding of all things Grand Theft Auto.
Gareth arrived home and I was watching Desperate Housewives. My eyes were glued to the screen, I doubt I’d blinked for an hour. Hello, he says, kneeling beside me. I grunt, tapping him gently on the head and turning the volume up slightly. He inquires as to my day.
‘Can we talk about this later?’ I ask, my eyes still on the impossibly skinny cast.
‘Of course we can,’ he says, probably smiling, I wasn’t looking. ‘As long as you remember this moment forever – remember that you are trying to watch something you enjoy and I’m trying to interrupt you, but you’d rather continue doing what you were doing before I walked in. I’ll be over here, not having a tantrum.’
Damn. That moment will stay with me forever. It'll haunt me forever. For now, not only do I understand Grand Theft Auto, I’ve got absolutely no legs to stand on when he has it on.
I blame those god damn impossibly skinny Desperate Housewives. I bet they don’t spend all day thinking about food.
"The composition of my soul is made, too great for servile, avaricious trade.
When raving in the lunacy of ink, I catch my pen and publish what I think."
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