Confessions of A Great Man...

There comes a profound moment in every man's life when he feels compelled to prove to his woman that he is a great man. That he is not a caveman. That he is a sensitive man, a thoughtful man.

That moment is almost always triggered by some hidden unconscious guilt that irritatingly gnaws away at his absolute unadulterated volition to simply have a good time. Maybe he spent too many nights out with the "boys". Maybe he should have called. Maybe he shouldn't have stared too hard at the girl in the black mini dress.

Unable to bear this pestering annoyance, the man reaches into the deep recesses of his neanderthalic soul and brilliantly concocts a plan which in his simple mind will without fail prove his worth to her.

It would be something monumental. It would be something SO HUGE that it will settle once and for all any lingering doubts she may have had about him. It will put an end to those occasional looks of bewilderment he didn't quite get at the time but upon somber reflection seem to subtly suggest "where did I go wrong?".

Alas, he decides, independently and remarkably, that he would, for once (without being asked)...perform the herculean task of washing the dishes.

But before the task is even undertaken, he is immensely pleased with himself. The thought of the delightfully surprised look on her face arouses his sense of humanity. He can't help but to bask in the glory of reaping the benefits of her appreciation. He feels warm and tingly all over as he anticipates her gratitude manifesting into something much much more. He is a smart man.

So at last that moment finally arrives. She comes home after a hard day’s work. There are remnants of lifeless bubbles trickling down the sink in a slow dying descent as if having been annihilated in a battle of epic proportions. There is the disturbing evidence of random water splashes, puddles, and sporadic blotches of unrecognizable food parts that could only have been something that was once edible.

He, the great man that he is, does not want to make a big fuss out of this and nonchalantly exchanges the usual greetings as if nothing extraordinary has taken place. Nevertheless, he can’t help himself but to lurk around the kitchen like a criminal coming back to the scene of the crime curious and anxious to know if he’s going to get caught.

He wants to scream “I did it. It was me. It was me who did it!” But he knows he has to remain cool, calm and collected because he is a patient man. He wants her to make the first move. After all, it’s the very least she can do. So he waits through the exchange of meaningless banter. He waits through her warbled stream of consciousness. Yet he grows anxious by the moment and waits. He waits for that sudden look of surprise, delight, and appreciation. He waits for that look of “how did I get so lucky?”

But it is slowly beginning to dawn upon him that she may not even care. Oh, he is a perceptive man. There is a sudden rush of doubt, desperation and resentment all coiled up in one incomprehensible quagmire of emotions. Feeling he can not allow this moment, this extraordinary moment, to merely pass, he implodes and finds himself declaring with a loud whimper, "I did the dishes".

Yes, he did indeed. He is overcome with an overwhelming sense of obtuse catharsis. It is a lukewarm puddle of a fleeting moment as he immediately and devastatingly feels the slings and arrows of her wrath, disgust, and pathos all wrapped in a tight panini sandwich. It was not the look he had envisioned.

He is a sensitive man. He is a thoughtful man. He is a pathetic man.