• When men and women disagree on biology, it can make for a heated argument
Never was I ever destined to be a scientist, but Newton’s third law has stuck with me since high school, for reasons that have nothing at all to do with physics, and everything to do with biology. “When two bodies interact, they apply forces to one another that are equal in magnitude and opposite in direction.”
I remember my friend Kombo and I making fun of the law.
“Do you think if your body and Jenny’s body interacted,” he whispered, “they would apply forces to one another equal in magnitude and opposite in direction?”
“Have you seen Jenny’s body?” I asked. “Nobody can apply a force of equal magnitude to her.”
Even now, I’m no smarter than I was back then, but I do recall someone warning men against arguing with women. Something about the fair sex always being right no matter what. But that’s like asking rivers to avoid waterfalls, if you ask me. Some collisions are unavoidable, and considering that the Newton fella knew a thing or two about collisions, some force of some magnitude is bound to result when a man and a woman’s opinions collide.
I say this because, this morning, my partner, Sgt Sophia, posited a topic I should have done better to avoid, but I am too stupid to know when to step away from a raging avalanche.
“I’m thinking of getting my breasts done,” she says, continuing to fill in the morning reports as if she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb. “I never thought about it, you know, until I saw this picture of The Vixen. You know her, right? She’s that artiste who sang that song about dating bad boys. Can’t remember the title to save a drowning cat. Can you?”
As you can tell, Sophia had provided me enough opportunities to stay clear of the blast zone. I have asked who The Vixen is, seeing as I have not an inkling who goes by the tantalising name. I could have engaged Sophia in a guessing game regarding what the title of a song about dating bad boys could be.
I could have asked, “Is it Messing Up My Life? I think I once heard something like that.”
Sophia would have laughed and made a snide remark about how I belong in the dark ages with the cavemen. We would have laughed. Hahaha! And gone on with our day.
But, alas! I had to ask the one question that goes against every rule book about male-to-female interactions.
“Why do you think you need a boob job?” I say. “Your boobs are perfect the way they are.”
She pauses and gives me the look you give someone who deliberately steps into a pile of doodoo. “In whose opinion?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“In whose opinion are my breasts perfect?”
“I mean, I’m your fiancé, right?” By now, I’m still ignorant of the fact that I’m neck-deep in cow dung. So, I decide to throw in what I think is a compliment. “I know what I saw when I fell in love with you.”
“So… you being in love with me gives you the right to decide how my body should be?”
Deep, deep guano.
“I’m sorry, hun. I didn’t mean nothing by that. Just forget about it.”
“Forget about it? No, no, no. Instead of forgetting about it, why don’t we talk about other opinions my fiancé has concerning my body. Like, should I shave my legs or am I pretty enough walking around with the legs of an orangutan?”
I should’ve left it at that. Instead, I said, “What’s the matter, hun? You seem to be in a sore mood today.”
And that’s how I end up sleeping on my tattered couch.