|SOMETIMES I ALMOST FEEL GUILTY ABOUT HOW CREEPY I AM. |
People are trying to enjoy a nice plate of eggs and ... "Hey, WTF, is that b*tch taking our picture?" (Yes.)
Many women I know suffer from a terrible condition called Deep Denialitis. They appear to be most vulnerable between the ages of 18 and death, when it strikes in its most virulent form by attacking women who are dating or married to assholes.
This affliction renders women unable to REALLY SEE the person they are dealing with, the lies he is telling her, the money he is mooching off her, and the many other ways in which he is simply not good enough for her. (This is not to be confused with a similar condition, Maternal Deep Denialitis, in which a mother cannot see that she has given birth to the world's ugliest baby.)
I've had my own brushes with this debilitating affliction, so it is difficult to restrain myself from offering my "wisdom" to younger women, strangers, even, when I see that they have developed this condition. That in fact they are riddled with it.
Recently, for example, while having breakfast at a Brampton restaurant, I sat near two young women. The place was packed, thereby enabling me to eavesdrop while pretending to be deeply absorbed in my toast points.
The young women were feverishly discussing their boyfriends' bad behaviour: one of them had "sexted" a co-worker and then accused his girlfriend of snooping when she found out, the other was pulling the old "I'm not ready to commit" thing after five years of living together.
"Uh-oh," I muttered to myself, while fake-surveying the contents of the jam basket. "One of those. Abort! Abort!"
"Yeah so I'm gonna give him an ultimatum," the young woman said. "I get a ring for my birthday or I'm gone."
Well I'll tell you, I was seized with a "healer" moment. I felt duty-bound to butt in and tell this woman she was making a terrible mistake. "Ladies," I said, "I couldn't help overhearing. And I have to say, No! No ultimatums! It weakens your position!"
The two looked at each other and then at me, as if I were a freshly laid cat turd that had suddenly decided to speak.
But I was in for a penny now, so I kept going.
"Seriously," I said, "if you really want him to want you, you have to make him think he can't have you."
Again, they exchanged looks. They were practically playing eyeball ping-pong, these two. But they were listening.
"Well how do you do THAT when you're living with the guy?" the ultimatum-giver asked.
"Well," I said, "what you do is, you move out."
The first woman rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her phone. The other one huffed, "Yeah last time I tried that, he asked his buddy to move in. Dude had his bags packed and everything."
"Well it sounds like he has no respect for you at all," I replied.
For one chilling moment, I actually thought the woman was going to slap me. "Sorry," I said. "I could be wrong."
I'd like to say they that we then pulled our tables together and became great friends and are currently filming Sex And The City: Brampton, but at that point the conversation ended. Instead, I wished them luck and excused myself awkwardly while they looked on in stony silence.
As I walked away, I heard one of them say, "Well he IS kind of an asshole."
That's close enough to "healing" for me ...