So, the other night Wifesy and I were heading out to yoga.  We were running a bit late as we eased our vehicle down our condo driveway.  We were forced to stop pretty quickly out of the gate.  In front of us was a man with all 4 doors of his SUV open.  He was loading his car and partially blocking the driveway.  Now, he wasn’t completely blocking it.  We could’ve gone around him.  Except for the fact that he also had a dog outside of the car.  The dog was in the middle of the driveway, unleashed, rooting around without a care in the world, as our two ton death mobile glared at him.  We honked at the man and gestured that he should pick up his dog.  Instead of picking up the dog, he shut his car doors and ushered the dog over to the side of the vehicle.  He then stood in front of it, arms extended, like a crossing guard telling everyone to stop.

 

Wifesy is a veterinarian.  So, this didn’t seem sufficient to her.  Quite frankly, it didn’t seem sufficient to me either.  I mean the dog is off leash.  To me the next logical step was – PICK UP THE FECKIN’ DOG.  But, no, this guy thought it was okay to just stand in front of the dog, as if a dog listens to humans when it’s supposed to.  Wifesy pulled the car over to nicely tell the man to “scoop the dog up.”  She began to speak and the harried man immediately started yelling.

 

“It’s fine.  Just go!”  He screamed.

 

“Look…” Wifesy began.

 

“I’m a single parent!” He yelled.

 

Now, with hindsight he was probably just an overly stressed out single parent.  I think this was indicated by the fact that he yelled out, “I’m a single parent” pretty much out of no where.

 

However, here’s where the cocktail goes wrong.  I am the nicest person on earth.  I’m loyal, I’m a giver (almost to a fault sometimes), but yell at my Wifesy – particularly when I feel she’s in the right – and you have a war on your hands.  So, I said…

 

“Just pick up the dog.  Just pick the feckin’ dog up.  It’s simple.  Put him in the car, then he won’t dart out.  JUST PICK UP THE FECKIN’ DOG, DUDE.  PICK HIM UP.”

 

After I yelled back, the startled man started yelling pseudo-gibberish and I yelled pseudo-gibberish back.  It sounded like the static between radio stations turned on full tilt.  Finally, Wifesy had the good sense to drive away because I was about to get out of the car and do I don’t know what.  Probably some kind of crazy gesticulating while bellowing nonsense.

 

About five minutes later, we were in the yoga studio performing child’s pose where I immediately began sobbing.  The teacher touched my back and I sobbed.  Wifesy touched my hand and I sobbed.  Thank god it was restorative yoga because to sob through some kind of Nazi, rapid fire, position flow would’ve been ridiculous.  It would’ve been like Private Benjamin sobbing through basic training, which happened.  I think.  I called the moment, “yoga rage.”  You have not lived until you’ve experienced the switching of emotions in an instantaneous span of time like a living, breathing, unit of telenovela energy.  This is what it is to be a woman.  It’s not all of it, but it’s a delicious part if you embrace it.  The moment passed and I went to work the next day.

 

Fighting through the war of life…

 

I’ve been working with a top notch, female video editor recently on a freelance writing project that I’ll be talking about soon.  I told her about my “yoga rage” or rather “rage then yoga” and she couldn’t stop laughing.

 

This is how I described the incident to my new co-worker:  “Pick up your feckin’ dog.  Pick up your feckin’ dog, Guy!  5 minutes later a yoga teacher says, everyone in child’s pose.  I assume the position and then I gently sob…and I sobbed for the world.  I sobbed because there are children in Africa with flies around their eyes.  I sobbed because that stupid feck who wouldn’t pick up his dog has more kids than he can handle.  I sobbed because my vagina is so big that it wants to scoop up the world and hold it in an embrace, you know, protect it from meanness.  This is what it is like to be constantly infused with estrogen.  When men don’t understand women, this is the part they don’t understand.”

 

I read somewhere that “sweat is fat crying” and it just feels right to me. Sorry, side thought.

 

The female video editor could not stop laughing after hearing my story.  In fact, she laughed until she cried.  (What a girl!)  I popped open a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, cracked open a box of Tampax and offered her one.  We put the video edit on hold and had a vagina dialogue.

 

Okay, not really, but it felt like that completely.  It was communal-like.  It was women sitting around a “red tent.”

 

So, what’s the point of this post?  Well, it is a mandatory regulation that every woman must talk about her “visitor” at least once in their blog, but never in their stand up act.

 

Mission accomplished.

 

Please feel free to lather your estrogen-laden moments and testosterone-fueled incidents in the comments section below.  Both are welcomed.  Both should be honored.  Viva la difference.  (…or something wonderfully french sounding like that.)

 

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Photo credits:  privatebenji, yoga-woman

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