One night after my girlfriend thought I had gone to bed, I walked down the stairs and into the living room again to get my cell phone to charge. As I entered the room, she jumped sky high and swung something behind her back so I wouldn’t see. At first glance it looked like a cooking pot. I had caught her, but doing what, or with what exactly, I am not sure. Fortunately for me, I don’t think she could hide another woman behind her back in a pot. I know. I’m pathetic, but you have to be thankful for what you can.
When I inquired about her jumping and what was behind her back, she giggled nervously and said nothing. Trying to not make too much of it, I tried to spy a better look to see what it could be. It was definitely a big cooking pot. That information only served to confuse me more.
Unfortunately, knowing she was trying to hide a pot from me did nothing but intrigue me further. Was she a witch, intent on brewing up some potion each night after I went to bed? Was she doing something really romantic and sweet that would make me feel guilty for interrogating her. Was she hiding something in the pot. That would actually make sense, because she knows I don’t cook, and therefore do not look in pots. She could hide anything in the kitchen and it would be safe for years, as long as she did not put it in the refrigerator, which was definitely my turf.
Did she have a habit she did not want me to know about? Was she addicted to something and hiding it in pots, to be retrieved each night after I went to bed. Was she hiding photos of a secret lover. Or maybe she was making me something, or keeping a journal she did not want me to see.
When she finally came to bed, I could not resist asking her twenty questions. Or maybe it was fifty questions. I ask her if it was edible? She said, “you could eat it if you wanted to.” I ask her what fruit it most resembled. She said a pineapple. I asked her if our dogs would eat it if it was offered to them. She answered yes. I asked her how much it weighed. She said nine ounces. I asked her if it grew on trees. She said no. I asked her if it came from the ground. She answered not exactly, but I was getting warmer. She said it was three words, two words started with an r and one word started with an f. It was a r_____ f____ r_____ .
I don’t know what to think, but I am intrigued. No, maybe it’s paranoia. Whatever the correct word is for my feelings, there is one thing that is certain. She has my attention. And stop scolding me already, as I have earned the right to be paranoid. My father actually taped my mother’s phone conversations at one point, believing she might be having an affair, which she never did. It’s kind of ironic, since he always cheated on her constantly. So as you can see, it’s not hard to get my imagination going in the wrong direction.
I don’t like secrets. They worry me. When I was a child I remember secrets usually erupted into something scary, like sleeping pods that exploded to life, when touched by sunlight. When I was a kid, my parents tried to keep the secret we were moving to Germany from me and my brother for as long as possible, worried how we’d react and trying to minimize our anxiety. But when we were forced to get all those immunizations, they were forced to fess up.
One thing I know for sure is that secrets undermine your relationship if they aren’t immediately resolved, as something truly wonderful, like a surprise birthday party or a gift for your birthday. I know I’ll never really know what I walked in on, or what she had hidden behind her back. Short of wrestling it away from her, which I would never do, there was no way to know what happened the other night. She could make up that three word answer on the spot and show up with it later to appease my curiosity. That’s the problem with a smart girlfriend. She can fool you, and you might never know.
I guess we all have our secrets. If we’re truly lucky, the biggest secrets we hide relate to surprise parties and special gifts. Being the cornball that I am, I’ll share a secret with you right now. No matter how paranoid you are, or how much you worry about the secrets you sense she keeps from you, there is nothing you can do about it. Sometimes it is better to live in ignorant bliss.
No comments:
Post a Comment