He Loves Her, He Loves Her Not: The Things Men Say

“Don’t get me wrong, she already has a place in my heart, that won’t change,” he says.

“You sound like it’s not going to work out between you two,” I say, raising my right eyebrow dramatically, playfully goading him.

“Of course it will. I love her,” he says, then a pause. “I do love her,” he says again.

“You are repeating your sentence, like you are trying to convince yourself,” I say, waving my spoon and jabbing in the air as I make my point.

“Well, we are not perfect. We do have our little quarrels here and there but in the end, I think we are good together,” he says.

“You don’t sound too sure,” I say in an accusing tone.

“I am sure,” he says, with more force than necessary.

“I don’t believe you,” I say, licking my ice cream spoon.

“Why?” he asks, moving his torso away from the table.

“Well, for one thing you told me she was fat.” I try to stop my lips from curling up in a smile.

“I said she gained weight.”

“Same thing.”

“No it’s not…she has. You should have seen her when we first met.”

“Have you told her to try to lose some weight?”

“Why would I want to do that?” he asks, looking like I just asked him to kill the president.

“Because you are uncomfortable with her weight,” I say, as though explaining the birds and the bees to my seven-year-old nephew.

“I am okay with it, I just wish she could start to do something about it.”

“You better tell her now before the kids come. You know what happens to pregnant women,” I say.

“I don’t know…maybe I will…,” he says, squirming in his seat.

“Personally, I think she is perfect, I really don’t like the whole ‘skinny is better’ thing.” I pause. “I think you like skinny women.”

“She was skinny when I met her and now…”

“And now what?” I say, growing a little impatient. “ I don’t understand men. Why do you think all women should be like super models? You are no Brad Pitt you know.”

“I mean, look at you. You exercise twice a week and eat right. Women should take care of themselves, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Like you?” I ask, pointing to his bald spot.

“I am trim and fit. This,” he says pointing to his head, “ is genetics.”

“You are ten pounds over weight, you have curly nasty hair on your back, you are balding, your chicken legs show when you wear shorts…oh, and your teeth needs whitening,” I reply

He looks hurt. “That was mean,” he says.

“Nah, that was reality and there is more where that comes from.”

“I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“Oh, but there is more where that came from,” I say, waving my spoon in his face.

“I did not mean to say that she is not good enough for me….”

“Look, ten years from now, when you have the house with a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, a mortgage and a dog, you will both be different. She may be chubby after a couple of kids, but you better love her and all extra pounds that come with her, just as she will love your middle-aged bald head, curly nasty back hair and chicken legs.” I shake my almost empty medium sized ice-cream cup to scoop more ice cream onto my spoon. “Would you like some more ice cream?” I ask.

“No,” comes the tense reply.

(Postscript: the relationship did not last)