My wife and her friends plan these Play Dates for their husbands. There is a new social occurrence that is taking place in our modern day lives, it’s called Husbands Play Date; it’s when a group of women organize events for married couples, where the husbands attending these events are completely oblivious to the surroundings, and sometimes the event is purposely created to fabricate a normal cozy environment for an occasional blind date, to set up their single girl friends with some schmuck who is a potential groom, while this whole process is worse than an awful matchmaking reality show, but the focus here is on the fact that married women force their husbands to come along to make new friends.
This is a situation where marital roles take a new dimension, or reveal their true capacities, the wives become worn out mothers, and the husbands become brat little children, most of which arrive to these functions kicking and screaming, with long grim faces, just like the first day at a new primary school during break time, and to make matters worse, the women literally act like frustrated mothers who can’t wait to get their children busy with anything, they break all adult social protocol, which we -boys-worked so hard to achieve, the -adult men- status, they blurt out statements like: “ok guys you can go play now, and play nice”, and to add insult to injury, they introduce us to each other in the most patronizing tone: “ David this is Saeed, Saeed is in banking and likes tennis”, what is one supposed to respond to that? : “oh, you are a banker, I have 2 bank accounts, I breathe oxygen, how about you?” And there is always that one guy, who is so awkward that no one wants to chat with him, he is standing all alone, doesn't know what to do with his arms, you feel him resisting the urge to run and hide behind his wife’s dress, and complain to her in front of all the women, that the men are not playing with him. Women detect this act of natural out-casting of the weak and the weird, and the hosting wife comes and yells at her husband for not being a good host to “Timothy” who is wearing a vest, please note that his name is not “Tim”, it’s Timothy. And the husband of the hostess, who by the way does not occupy a position of a Co-host, and not even an honorary one, he complains back about Timothy and tells her that he does not allow us to call him Tim, only Timothy, and he is wearing a vest and he puts ice in his beer, but she gives him The LOOK, and that’s that.
You are not considered a real couple if either party cannot attain immediate obedience nonverbally. Once the look is established in the relationship, you become a real couple.
The LOOK is a binding nonverbal contract between the two parties, it is an unbreakable promise from obedience seeking party (hereinafter referred to as the SEEKER) to the obedience offering party (hereinafter referred as the SEEKEE) to endure a certain amount of torment and anguish previously identified and examined by the disobedient party (hereinafter referred to as MISERY), the tenure of such agony is decided by the severity of the disobedience actions and varies between different cultures and backgrounds (hereinafter referred to as selective PMS).
It is critical to mention that women are far more advanced in their SEEKING abilities than men, I reckon that women set The LOOK board meetings to compare notes and promote the applications of best practices.
So we, the husbands, are all standing around there like ghosts, shadows of the men we once were, we are gazing at each other with hollow lifeless zombie eyes, and in between trivial small talks, I snap back into consciousness and I think to myself, I really don't give a damn about your job or what you do, or what you think of Dubai, hell, I don't even give a damn about my own job, and an internal monologue transpires, and all I can think about is how many bottles of wine can fit in that fridge, I hope they have enough beer, I swear if my wife makes me barbecue I will fake a heart attack, I swear.
What symptoms appear first in a heart attack? Chest or arm? How messy would it be if I leave on a stretcher in an ambulance for a fake heart attack?”
However, the great thing about men is that we are survivors, we adjust to new environments fairly quickly, we will create a power center transmitting signals of life, that is usually implanted next the bar, and when some livelihood is spotted in the eyes of one of these zombies, a connection is made and a tribal formation starts to take shape, small huddles are created. Gossip and alcohol are the best social lubricants, talking about group acquaintances is a marvelous ice breaker, a chunky looking fellow who is stuffed in his shirt with crocked necktie, obviously not used to wearing it, winks at me and gestures if I wanted to do shots with him, it’s like the aftermath of an Armageddon, finding a homo-sapien after being the sole survivor is as great as the big bang itself, we do a few shots real quickly without even saying a word, and that is orderly in accord with the Men Code, you can do up to 3 shots with a total stranger without the need for verbal interaction, just like how Arab’s welcome guests to stay for 3 nights without asking about the guest’s name or purpose of visit, I knew that after the 3rd shot we had to start conversing, I had planned to break into the real hot topics right away, I love talking about their friend “Denise”, the red head with the huge boobs.
I enquired: “where is Denise?”
He asked: “who is Denise”
I gestured big-boobs with my hands
He responded: “yeah the red head”, he confirms with a big sly smile and continues “I heard she is dying to get married”
I said: “I think this whole event is to fix her up with some lucky schmuck”
He said: “I really don't understand why she is not finding anyone, she so hot, I mean really hot, no you don't understand, I like to pass by her and smell her hair, I hate it that my wife doesn't like her”
I said: “Well it’s obvious why your wife doesn't like her, and I do agree with you, looking at this woman chopping a salad changed my views on becoming a vegetarian, and I love my steaks I tell you”
He said: “I really don't understand”
I said : “I will tell you why, I spoke to her once and asked her what it is she wants in a man, and I swear to you this what she said, she wants a guy who is very sociable and friendly but doesn't have a lot of friends, she wants him wealthy and from a good family but self-made and financially independent, she wants him handsome and charming but not a womanizer, she wants him to respect women but to hate his mother, or at least to come with some mommy issues, she wants him to have the spirit of a rock ‘n’ roll star but carries himself with the mannerisms of a wall street fund manager, extremely confident but still a child inside, she wants him to be a beast with the world but a lamb at home, collected with episodes of impulsiveness, romantic yet very funny.”
He said: “ ok, she wants Mr. oxymoron, I have a cousin who is bipolar with severe schizophrenia, we can bring here.”
I laughed and said : “ you are right, whether Mr. oxymoron or superman, what is this description!”
He said : “ see that’s the problem with women, they love crazy guys, you do realize that superman wears his underwear on top of his pants, and guess what, you know she dated David way back.”
I asked : “who is David?”
He points at a nervous short skinny bald guy with a thin mustache and says : “that one, and listen to this, he dumped her and married Vivian”
I said: “no way, that sleaze ball dated my red angel.”
He said: “and Vivian has him under her thumb, this woman must have been an army sergeant, or a serial killer in a previous life.”
So the dialogue covered many other typical topics like how Mahmoud is secretly married to another woman in Oman, apparently she has children from a previous marriage and the idiot “or hero” is paying for their schools fees, he made a joke about giving Mahmoud his children until they reach university, we also discussed techniques about where to hide porn folders, he strongly advised me to create an auto history delete, especially after his wife almost divorced him for stumbling across kinky websites involving baseball bats and street cones, I was a bit disturbed since these items are usually used in Fight Club Websites rather than porn sites, but to each his own, and he is the sole survivor of this Armageddon, so I played along and nodded casually when he was explaining to me how to become a member of this CONE website and that it has more than 4 million followers who call themselves CONEHEADS, he also confessed to me that he over indulges in food before he goes home, apparently his wife is a bad cook on purpose , this is her Nazi weight-loss technique. We also concluded that Vivian, David’s wife, is a complete psychopath, and we were so cute to decide that she shall not be allowed in our homes anymore, as if we possess such power over household jurisdiction, but then again we made a very compelling argument, Vivian cries when she laughs and laughs when she cries, she is a character from the Shining, he is utterly convinced that she has her in-laws heads in her fridge, right next to her David’s testicles.
The best thing about talking to real men, is that we can connect over the simplicity of life intricate complexities, we both acknowledge that we do not want to be friends, not now, not ever, and we really don't care much for each other, this is just survival mode, we are both daydreaming about what our real friends are doing right now, and how much we miss them.
Nevertheless, real men can enjoy the simplest of conversations, and I emphasize the phrase REAL-MEN, where any stupid conversation can take many interesting twists and turns, once men are bonding on that level, the dialogue can go something like this.
He asked: “have you seen Sam’s sons? These freaking kids have six packs, and they are only 7 and 9, these kids are definitely on steroids and lots of freaking redbull man, they do not stop running and jumping and punching everyone even my 3 year girl, I wanna kill them”
I asked: “why don't you put them in their place? Take charge.”
He said: “I’m scared of them man, you should see their lean shredded bodies, they have veins on their arms and the young has a vein on his forehead, so creepy, they look like Russian gymnasts.”
I asked:”are they Russian?”
He said “I’m not sure, Serbian I think!”
I said: “Is that Russian? Or is it Ex-Soviet Union?”
He said: “ I’m not sure Serbia was ever a part of the Soviet Union! I don't think they even speak Russian.”
I asked: “what do they speak?”
He said: “Serbian I guess!”
I said: “Get out of here! Its sounds like Russian, google it man”
He types a few words on his iPhone and he said: “Oh, I am right they are not, it’s Balkans”
I didn’t know what Balkans is but this is google, so it’s done, I said: “you are smart Dude”
He said: “Thanks, I read the serial box fun facts every day.” he continues “I wish my wife can hear you say that”
I asked: “why?”
He said: “she thinks I’m a dinosaur and unwilling to evolve, but then again she has gone crazy, its official”
I said: “they all are, but how did you make it official? Is there an attestation bureau? I’d like to get my crazy one attested too.”
He responded: “well my wife is seeing a life counselor”
I asked: “what is that? Psychiatrist?”
He said: “no man, had it been a psychiatrist I would have said my wife is sick, but the fact that she makes me pay $300 per hour to speak to an ordinary person to make a new friend is why I say she lost her mind, and I am a dinosaur for not embracing the modern techniques of the 21st century”
I inquired further: “what’s a life counselor? Giving birth stuff!”
He said with in an impressed tone: “I like how your mind works man, no it’s life coaching sessions, my wife needs someone to tell her how to live, mankind has been doing it for thousands of years, but my wife seems not to be wired like the rest of us.”
I asked: “what makes this coach a life expert?”
He said: “she drinks green tea.”
I asked again: “so this woman is just a friend who is paid to spend time with your wife”
He said: “yes we pay for pleasurable company”
I said hesitantly: “isn’t paying for pleasure prostitution?”
He said: “don’t get me started bro”
I said: “ so why are you allowing it?”
He said : “first of all, you use the word ALLOW very loosely around here, you should be more careful, I fear for your safety, there are spies and recruits all over. But that’s how bad it’s gotten, I’d rather pay people to sit with her, than having to go through these endless seminars about life fulfillment and legacies. she talks so much about the purpose of life and the legacy we will leave behind that I want to die without any trace, I want to die without a single evidence I existed, I want to be cremated with all my belongings, and I want to have a Men in Black themed funeral, where at the end of my eulogy a big flash sparkles from the memory erasing machine and I’m gone.
I said: “I think she made you crazy, and don't worry I won’t attend your funeral, so I will remember you”
He said: “ thanks man, but maybe you are right that does sound crazy, I think I need to see a psychiatrist.”
I said : “maybe you need your own life coach”
We do a few more shots, and I hear my wife calling my name from the background to come help with the BBQ, and I wonder how is this fair? I need a heart attack to get out of this. I BBQ in my house, and I put up with this torture camp just so I can at least relax without any hard labor, but of course this is not possible, as Chris Rock once said “if she sees you having fun; she failed as a wife.” so me and my nameless survivor were separated once more for being too friendly, he wasn’t even allowed to come BBQ with me, his wife pulled him to meet her life coach’s husband, it’s like women have a Fun-o-meter, if a man achieves real levels of fun an alarm goes off somewhere in women’s headquarters, and they send troops to separate the fun protesting crowds, it is illegal to have too much, and you are also not allowed to be bored to death, they give you small doses of fun to just keep you going.
That was the last time I saw my nameless Armageddon comrade, we both looked at each for the last time, I was planning to go ahead with my heart attack ploy, but he gently grabbed my arm, as if he knew what I was about to do, and he gave me the “It’s gonna be ok look” and whispered : “go to your SEEKER” and we were separated, and as we walked through the crowds, life was dimming out of our eyes once again, and the zombie look had swiftly befallen on us like the dark cold night swallowing the last rays of the warm sun, and as we were guided towards our enslaved chores, and before I completely turned into a zombie, I made a promise to myself to honor this nameless man, and once I come back from this un-conscience state, I will become a CONEHEAD.