Self-flagellation and P.S. I Love You

Back in the day, when Husband Dearest would be away – business, bachelor party..whatever – I would take my chance to watch scary movies with my friends or all the random ghost shows that come on after dark on the weekend. I would do this knowing full well that I would watch just enough to start believing there are ghosts in my own house, friendly or not.

Wouldn’t be too long before I would be sure they weren’t friendly, and every time my dogs barked at nothing, I would be more and more sure I was right. Those nights were probably the bulk of that month’s electricity bill, because every light, and sometimes more than one television would be on the whole night. From the street, my house very likely looked like Thomas Edison’s field lab.

Knowing I was choosing to scare myself witless was literally like cutting my own switch and grabbing for my ankles.

As I near my thirties, my choice of punishment has evolved. I seem more and more prone to the sappy, woman movie. Yes. It’s true. When normally I can’t sit still for longer than an hour show, I keep finding myself in the middle of these wonderful, horrible, sometimes Lifetime-related, woman-targeted movies like “P.S. I Love You” or “My Sister’s Keeper.”

These movies seem designed to make you weep. Not cry, weep…seep? Whatever crying it is when your eyes drip of their own accord, long after you have told them to cut it out. These story lines are fantastic, sad and moving. You know what you’re getting into and just can’t help but watch anyway.

Guys, I know you don’t get it. We don’t get it either. I will sign off by trying to explain it with Man Language:

  1. Imagine you are offered two choices: A) a massage or B) a massage with a happy ending
  2. What if they told you that the massage would be great, the happy ending even better, but at the end the session, the massage bimbo would take your money and kick you in the nuts.
  3. You know there are plenty of you out there that are still thinking B is looking pretty good…
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