These three little words can really pack a wallop. If said in conjunction with your house, you’re probably talking about knocking a wall down. If a shuttle astronaut utters them, he’s talking about the love he has for his job. If, however, they cross the lips of someone involved in a relationship, loosely translated, it means, ‘dinner for one.’
I made the mistake of asking my high-strung but very lovely friend, Alana, how she and Steve were doing. She told me that he said he needed space. Tears welled up in her eyes and within seconds, the dam had completely burst. I hugged her and then stuck a pin in my arm as a reminder to never again ask her that question.
She wanted my help. “What does that mean,” she asked? I tried to put a positive spin on it and told her that it was no big deal. It probably meant that he wanted to spend more time with the guys, go to strip clubs, get hammered to the gills, and re-discover the joys of strange, naked women with loose morals. I then jabbed myself with the pin again realizing I wasn’t being much help. I was quick to add, though, that if he were to ever do that, I was sure he would use a designated driver.
I told her that after he spends a couple of nights home alone, he’ll realize how much he misses her and come racing back. “Do you think it may have been the Dr. Scholl’s bunion pads I gave him for his birthday,” she asked? Once again, I gave her a hug and said, “Some guys just don’t appreciate the simple things in life.” “I was only thinking of him. He walks a lot,” she blubbered. Continuing, she said, “It’s just that I’m having so many problems right now, you know. My accountant wanted to get together Saturday to do my taxes but I had a manicure appointment AT THE SAME TIME and then the cable guy came over and told me that I need a new cable box and he won’t have one until next week. How am I going to record Mob Wives on VH1? And as if that’s not enough, Bob, they’re really putting pressure on me to get an extended warranty on my dishwasher. I don’t even have a damn dishwasher! I can’t do it all.”
Bob: How long have the two of you been together?
Alana: Almost six months. No wait, I think it’s eight or maybe a year.
Bob: I’m shocked.
Alana: That I can’t remember exactly how long?
Bob: No, that he hasn’t shot himself. I mean, right, yes, that he’s an idiot for
leaving you. That’s what I meant. Don’t worry. He’ll be back.
Alana: You’re not very good at this are you?
Bob: No. Not one of my strong points.
Alana, men are fickle sometimes. Mighty fickle. Sometimes a full tank of gas and the lure of an open road is too much to resist. If he comes back and you still tingle at the thought of his touch, good for you. But, should he choose to follow the open road until he finds the elusive exit called Happiness, I hope he gets sucked in by the mother of all potholes. But, hey, I hear that cable guys are pretty good listeners and, as I recall, you always were a sucker for tool belts.