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We can dance if we want to.

Forget it.  I do dance like an imbecile.  I’m proud of it.  Chicks used to dig it back in the day.

My current chick of the last twenty years apparently digs it when her man checks and fills the air in the tires of our van.  Our van has an automatic tire pressure sensor which gives an alert on the dashboard screen when the tire pressure dips below 32 psi, flashing a “FLAT TIRE, CHECK TIRE PRESSURE” message.  Apparently, according to my current chick, that message has been boldly proclaimed for the past few days.

“You’re going to call me stupid when I walk out of the room, but I haven’t checked the tire pressure and I haven’t filled the tires with air.”

“I wasn’t going to call you stupid, but thanks for giving me no choice but to think it.”

That didn’t go over well.  Contrary to what was expressed, I do not often choose to think of my wife as stupid.  She’s not stupid.  Stubborn, yes, but not stupid.  She knew what result her little statement would have on me.   The thought was planted in my tiny male brain, with the little devil sticking it’s stupid pitchfork into my shoulder.  I recognized her statement for what it was – manipulation at it’s female finest.  Mir was about to make a late night grocery run, a task she not so secretly despises, and she was really looking for an excuse to forego her trip to the store.  Procrastination was in effect as it had been all evening.  I saw it and chose not to acknowledge it even as she sat across the living room in her fuzzy-hooded jacket, got up and went into the kitchen, banged some pans around in the sink, then came back to sit across from me ten minutes later with the fuzzy hoodie still on.  I looked up, acknowledged her presence, then went back to reading my book.

Before the nasty grams start flying, let me say that I had already put in a twelve hour day at work, came home to a tired wife who had already fed herself and our son by stopping by the local burger joint, and went to the grocery store to purchase more food to feed myself and our already hungry son.  After the exhausting task of heating the frozen pizza, I ate it then spent an hour playing ping pong with Nate the aspiring ping pong champion.  In my world, I had earned the hour or so I had left before bed to vegetate on the couch with my laptop.  I had.

I could hear the female stopwatch ticking across the room.  Ignoring it was like trying not to gaze upon the exposed coif of Medusa.  My fate was sealed.  Call me a statue.

“Are you going to fill the tires for me?”  Her arms were crossed.  Response was not necessary.  I shut down my laptop, put it to the side, got out of the chair, grabbed the van keys, and walked out the door without saying a word.  It was 9:15 PM  according to the digital clock in our van.

We have two gas stations within a mile of our house.  Neither air compressor at those stations worked.  The first compressor I found that worked, leaked.  The next, another two miles away, was in the dark.  I finally found one that worked – and spent five minutes trying to get the language-challenged cashier to understand that I needed four quarters for the dollar bill I was handing him.

Her smug smile directed at me from her spot in our bed when I walked in at 10:30 almost prompted a very male reaction from me.  Instead, I calmly prepared for bed and promptly pulled the covers over her face as I got into bed and made the bed “warmer”.

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