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Hardy2
October 04, 2006

Low Tidings


Women With Muscles

Women think they know what men like, but are oftentimes wrong. Take Hillary Swank, of Million Dollar Baby fame.

"Look at this body," Karen said to me the other day, holding up a magazine. "They say she put on 15 pounds of muscle for the role." The picture showed Swank running at full speed, her ripped muscles bulging in her legs, stomach and just about everywhere else. She looked like an antelope. "Isn't she sexy?" Karen asked.

RED FLAG ALERT. Men, listen to me now and hear what I say. When your wife asks you this question, never tell the truth! I guarantee you it will come back and bite you. Oh, it will be OK for a while, but later — it could be months or even years — she will throw it back in your face.

"I love you, babe," you'll say in an intimate moment.

"But I'm not as sexy as Hillary Swank," she'll purr back.

"But I only said she was sexy because you said she was. I was just agreeing with you."

"It's obvious you don't want me anymore, you want some 25-year-old hottie with a buff body."

The truth is I have a cardinal rule I've followed all my life: I don't date women who can bench press more than I can.

My feelings are: I've deluded myself into believing I am a world-class athlete. I've had to compete against physically imposing men all my life. I don't need the humiliation of a woman besting me in an athletic endeavor.

Of all of Karen's attributes, here is what I like most: even at my age I can beat her in a basketball game 100 to nothing (assuming I don't have a heart attack). Here's how it would play out: I get the ball, I dribble under the basket, I turn, go over Karen, and lay it in. If I miss, I get the rebound and shoot again. Then Karen gets the ball, I call her for double dribbling, then I take the ball, dribble under the basket, and go over Karen for an easy two-footer.

Should Karen not double dribble her next possession, I will block her shot, dribble to the basket, and make a two-footer while elbowing her in the ribs. She will bend over in pain, and I will steal the ball and lay it in. And so on. I want a woman I can dominate in bed and in the paint.

Imagine doing the same against Hillary Swank. I elbow her in the ribs, she beats the living crap out of me. Game over.

I don't think women should be allowed to lift weights. If they are going to pick up weights they should also be required to pick up checks.

Karen refers to me as "my big strong man," even as I'm handing her the mayo jar to open because I can't budge the damn thing.

I knew that the Chad Lowe/Hillary Swank thing wouldn't last. She is taller. She is tougher. She has strong facial features, he has soft features. She even played a boy in Boys Don't Cry. She is hard and he is soft. Hmmmmmm. This was not a healthy relationship, folks. We're lucky Chad didn't get pregnant.

In my house I reach up to the top shelf of the cupboard to get the can of soup because Karen can't reach it. I drive the car. I wear the pants. I wear the adult diap . . . well, never mind about that.

The point is Karen is soft and sweet and cuddly, and I'm tough and strong and brave. Things are as they should be.

I'd like to expound further, but we have dinner guests coming tonight. I've got to get to the supermarket, clean up the house, put on my apron, and start cooking. But when it is time to eat I will take my place at the head of the table and I will carve the meat and distribute it to the other meat-eaters.

(I will probably just buy a roast beef but make no mistake about it, if I choose to I could hunt down a cow and personally slaughter it, as real men are wont to do.)

And after a wonderful dinner, great conversation, a couple bottles of wine, and some fine cognac our guests will depart and Karen and I will be left blissfully alone to do our thing. She'll probably make up some lame excuse because the last time we were together she broke a nail dribbling.

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