Mars, Venus, and Sexy Underwear

Barb Here

I may not publish this post. (Because do you really need to read a post about communication between the sexes and pee-proof underwear? Isn’t that one bridge too far?

I know what will happen, though: I’ll write it, share it with Lynnelle and she’ll make me publish it. (She did. Lynnelle made me post this.)

Sometimes, I Just Need to Write About It—Whatever “It” is That Day

The events I’m about to describe are exacerbated by our tight living quarters. (Boat life ain’t for sissies.) But I expect that these conversations occur every blessed day in any home populated by retirees. This may not be a Mar/Venus or Man/Woman thing. It may be a couples/personalities thing, but it’s my post so I’m going with a Husband/Wife Thing strengthened by our respective oral proclivities. In other words, the events I’m about to describe happen because both EW and I talk—sometimes too much and too often.

Harkening back to Mars/Venus, did you read that book way back when? One of the things that hit home is that Husbands (from Mars) more often want to fix the problem

s their Venus-native wives present. While wives sometimes (often) just want to express their thoughts and be “heard”, not fixed. Back to that oral thing…both of us tend to exclaim or talk to ourselves out loud; neither of us wants the other to answer in these situations. If EW is working on a project I (being from Venus and intuitive) have learned to differentiate his out-loud musings. Most I ignore but if there is a certain tone or accompanying crash or splash, I will say, “Do you need help?” He can answer no and move on. Conversation (if one could call it that) over.

What’s Sauce for the Goose is Fodder for the Gander

When I exclaim, EW wants more information. I just went on deck to take photos of this stage of the deck projects and banged my wounded ankle on some hardware, saying, “Damn!”  He, of course, wanted to know what happened. Now that sounds benign, but he always wants to know. I could be struggling with the laptop, or a word, or reading a memo and—if I utter anything—he wants to know all about it. Except he truly doesn’t want to know. He can’t help, barely listens, and will have no opinion, but he asks.

(This does not explain the times I’m actually talking to him and he totally ignores me, prompting me to say, “Just because I talk a lot doesn’t mean I have nothing to say.” Yes, he can’t win.)

There are times though, that I just don’t need/want/can’t stand to give him the run down. This actually happened the last time I gathered laundry for a trip ashore.

No, EW, You Don’t Want to Know

I was in our master stateroom (bedroom) loading the cavernous laundry bag and realized I’d either buried the detergent or lost it. So I had to dump the laundry back onto thesole (floor) and pick through it. (I buy large jugs of detergent and transfer them to a small squeeze bottle for trips ashore. Works great—except when it doesn’t.)

I tripped over the laundry and banged my sore ankle (and I wonder why it’s taking so long to heal) and had to pee. Now, I’ve found lately that sometimes I have to go to the bathroom and at other times I HAVE TO PEE! The latter is often a case of I HAVE TO PEE combined with “I need to look into that pee-proof underwear.” So, yes, I dribbled and at that moment, I uttered “Shit.” (Lack of exclamation mark denotes uttering not yelling.)

Of course, EW, who often can ignore or not hear his phone from that distance, heard the uttered swear word, asked if I was OK, and then asked (twice) what had happened. Seriously? I didn’t have time to answer as I was trucking to the head (toilet). Yeah, like I was going to stop everything and explain my temporary incontinence.

#GET OUT OF MY WAY. #YOU ARE NOT HELPING.

And yeah, this is not one of our loftier posts, but if you’ve ever found yourself stopping to cross your legs while laughing or before a sneeze, then you know what I mean.

Admit it, this is real life for many of us over 60, please let me know I’m not alone here.

In the meantime, I have to exercise my pelvic floor because, while I have no interest in wearing the sexy lacy underwear Lynnelle has promised herself, I’m not emotionally ready for the pee-proof underwear variety just yet.

 

 

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