I have tried to be a mild man who sees only good in his fellow chaps. However the female side of life, which I seem not to understand, tortures me at whim. I have discussed this subject with my fellow club male members, who have shocking stories of the appalling actions of wives, sisters and maiden aunts.
For instance, I know today fathers are expected to sit through births as if they were a walk in the park, but some of us find the very idea a gruesome situation at which only the woman in question and her medical attendants should be present.
Thankfully I was made to appear at only one of my wife’s drops, and luckily before the main act, I passed out. However I have been told by others of my like that because of what they were made to witness, they have never fully regained their former ardor vis-a-vis the wives.
Happily I no longer live in dread of that particular form of harassment, but there are other ways to frighten me, such as the bathing-suit fitting.
There is a mysterious shop on Douglas Street in the cold shadow of city hall that handles mature women and their beachwear needs. I give it a wide berth whenever I pass. So it came as a shock to me when Kitty, my wife of some 50 years, insisted that I accompany her there as she wanted my approval of any purchase, or so she said.
It was a pleasant Victoria Wednesday when we entered the shop, Kitty in the lead, with me bringing up the rear. I was not at all comfortable in a shop where women disrobed willy-nilly, complaining loudly that nothing fit them.
I tried to keep my eyes glued on a small TV on one side of the store to avoid sights that might make me squeamish. Large and small women pranced around shouting that this was too large or that was too tight and announcing loudly how much they disliked the whole process.
Suddenly the room swam before my eyes as my wife appeared before me in a gingham bikini. It was of an astonishing full but blurry sight.
“What do you think, darling?” she asked.
Now I put it to you: What is a chap supposed to say in such a case? If you say something along the lines of “A woman your age cannot wear something like that,” then you are for it.
If, on the other hand, you say, “How daring of you, you look wonderful,” then you are committing a crime against humanity, because the sight of my wife in an outfit like that would make children cry and old men swallow their back teeth. In short, it could not be allowed to happen.
I quickly said “No comment” and went back to some silly show on the TV about female lapidary, knowing that I might well receive the Order of Canada if there were any witnesses to my bravery.
After awhile I looked up and was delighted to see that my wife was no longer in the vicinity, but then a woman wailed something about a female weeping in one of the dressing rooms. I smiled weakly as the room seemed to turn towards me with glaring eyes.
A towering woman to my right was dressed in a bright red one-piece number that reminded me of a fire engine but with a siren, for she bellowed that I had hurt my wife’s feelings regarding a cute little bikini. I rose to my feet stuttering that it was for her own good and that she mustn’t be allowed to wear it publicly at her age.
Then a bull-legged lady holding her top on said I was a “meanie” and trying to keep my wife a slave to the kitchen. More women began to appear in disarray, making threatening gestures while half-dressed. I bolted like a rabbit for my club.
Copyright 2014 Major’s Corner
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