Kenya’s Next Top Model is mad. In this case, the reference is not to her sanity, though that is another very debatable subject. She is not crazy, just very, very upset. Which is why she has suspended all my boyfriend privileges, and responds to my best attempts to engage her in conversation with that withering glare she reserves for friends who call her fat. Or show up wearing the exact shade of green as her. And because I have a Y chromosome, I have absolutely no idea what the problem could be.
In accordance with the unwritten rules of dealing with females, I have embarked immediately on the highly unpredictable and unbelievably grueling task of churning out sweet nothings. I called her every pet name known to man, including some that I personally feel are extremely ridiculous. I said flowery things about her hair that I did not mean. I even quoted a few lines of Shakespeare’s finest, but for all my efforts, I might as well have been reciting the alphabet to a goat. Or could it be she has no idea who Shakespeare was?
I am fairly certain that this is not about a birthday. Once upon a time, when I was young, stupid and completely green in the affairs of the fairer gender, I made the colossal mistake of forgetting about her birthday. It was my first encounter with the deceptively simple question, “What’s the date today, dear?” and my discovery that “23rd, why?” was the least acceptable response. So, no, my sweet liver is not upset about me forgetting a birthday. Hers is not for another two months, and I have several alarm reminders to prove it. Nor is it about an anniversary, because I finally managed to drive home to her my thesis that only crazy people celebrate one week anniversaries, or the anniversary of their first public display of affection.
I am less convinced, but certain nonetheless, that it is not about her appearance. This morning, when she began her two-hour beauty regimen, I did the usual complimentary dance. ‘You look spectacular today, darling.’ ‘They had to have made that dress just for you’ ‘I love the hair, gorgeous.wow’ ‘No, those pants do not make you look fat at all’. A few months ago, I upgraded her title from girlfriend to Kenya’s Next Top Model. Every once in a while, I look her over with the bedroom eyes to let her know exactly what I think of her body. So I really don’t see how this could be about her appearance. Of course I could be wrong.
I would be willing to bet that this is not about ‘that treacherous time of the month’. Now that I think about it, I have come so far from wide-eyed and clueless. Because now I have the knowledge, and it is this knowledge that enabled me to classify sections of the months with regard to mood. These sections are; ‘Normalcy’, which is when she bears the closest resemblance to a human being, and is most likely to ignore the socks I left on the carpet; ‘House-help’, a very unpleasant stage when she wants to eat anything and everything, and will send you on endless errands for ‘that chocolate with no calories’; ‘Frisky’, the delightful period when you ask her to pass the remote and she passes you the bra she was just wearing instead. And, finally, ‘The battleground’, when she is smack in the middle of her monthly…er…cleanse, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Unless I am mistaken, my dearest is in her normal stage.
I have not looked at anyone while we were walking in the streets, regardless of what they were not wearing. Even that skimpy skirt the skinny girl was wearing did not catch my eye at all. Those who did look probably saw her thighs. And I have deleted and destroyed all evidence of the extracurricular sites I have visited in the past month.
I am just about to disqualify my next unlikely scenario when the rebellion kicks in. To the best of my knowledge, I have done nothing wrong. I love this woman to death, a fact that seems clear to everyone in the universe but her. And yet here I am, deeper in thought than I have ever been in any class, and terrified that I may have done something wrong. I suppose this is love? An unending game of charades, a stroll through a field loaded with landmines, where the slightest misstep is rewarded accordingly. I honestly believe my brain power could be better utilized.
Kenya’s Next Top Model is mad. She is gorgeous, with the prettiest smile and the most amazing eyes. But she is also insane if she expects me to waste another moment analyzing her every move. My love is as unending as the sea itself, but until sense returns to the world…
I want my rib back, woman.