We are unremarkable to look at. When we walk down the street, people don’t shrink away, gag with revulsion, or cover their children’s eyes. But to Wendy, we are like dirty underwear; it exists, but you don’t wave it at people you’re trying to impress.
Nevertheless, bad timing or transportation necessities cause a fair number of encounters. Afterward, Wendy will make the best of it and ask me questions along the line of, “Who do you think is cuter—Justin or Brian?”
I have so much to tell Wendy. I can tell her how a printing press works, why I think so many baseball fans despise the Yankees, why Cervantes would’ve hated “Man of La Mancha,” what “bemused” really means, what boys talk about, how to eat for $4 a day, why the Confederates almost won the war, and so much more.
But Wendy requests my input only on boy cuteness. It’s not that she values my opinion. It’s because boys are absolutely her favorite topic and she uses me to help perfume the atmosphere with the magical scent of their names.
I want to make the most of the scant amount of conversation that Wendy tosses my way, so whenever I see any of her boys, I prepare for the inevitable questions by studying them. I try to identify their differences and I try even harder to find good things to say about them.
All the boys she’s interested in look the same—they are slim and with long, floppy hair. Their personalities vary only from impolite to rude and from stupid to really stupid. To Wendy there are worlds of difference between her boys, but when she invites me to explore those worlds, I’m an amateur trying to judge a dog show—one Irish Setter looks a lot like another Irish Setter. One may be a little taller or a little shaggier, but I can’t tell them apart, let alone pick a winner. It would help if they wore name tags or if I could mark them with chalk or a harmless dye.
A few months ago, Wendy and her best friend Shay decided to host two of them at our house, chaperoned by her sister Marie, who was home from college. Wendy knew we’d be away. “See?” I’d boasted to her, “Mom and I have active social lives, too.” (We were going to a funeral and a wake.)
Marie later reported, “Wendy and Shay spent the whole day preparing. They bought chips and Coke and rented a special DVD. They even baked brownies. Then they worked on their makeup and hair. When the boys stumbled in, they pretty much ignored the girls, ignored the movie, and just ate the snacks and grunted to each other. And after they left, Wendy and Shay were all moony about how adorable they are and how awesome it was having them come over.”
“These girls don’t seem to expect much from their man-candy,” I said, “By the way, did you ever notice that all of Wendy’s boyfriends look the same?”
“It’s because Wendy is so cute she can always choose her type,” Marie said, “and her type is skinny with shaggy hair and black skateboarding clothes.”
“But what about intellect, humor, charm and a loving soul?” I asked.
“Dad,” she responded, “We’re talking about eighth-graders. These boys have just learned to walk on their hind legs! Besides, you shouldn’t be criticizing Wendy’s taste. From what you’ve told me, when you were her age your type was female, breathing, and unselective. And I doubt you were much different from her boyfriends either.”
“But they’re bums!” I said.
“If you were such a teen superstar, why did Grandpa want to send you to a military academy?”
“That was for reasons of national defense,” I said. “And the enemies of freedom are lucky I remained in public school.”
Marie laughed appreciatively. “OK, Dad,” she said, and patted my hand.
Rick Epstein in the editor of a weekly newspaper.