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That dreaded question, the question that surely must be the male equivalent of “do these pants make me look fat,” popped up the other night.  It is a trick question one can never answer properly, the mere fact that it is being asked an indication of a big thicket sprouting forth to snag you in it’s prickly embrace.

The question is, will you remarry after I die? I’m laughing here, both of these questions are not about the questions being asked at all, but about the intent and meaning behind the questions themselves and the desired response.

It’s somewhat funny, my husband is the one who taught me that. I ask questions all the time, never seeking a literal answer, but rather an emotional one. He rather wisely figured out how to maneuver thorough my perpetual  mine field early on. Unfortunately he has also picked up my own habit.

I could never remarry, they broke the mold when they made you.

I think you should have a back up plan so you are never lonely.

There is no back up plan. I would be utterly, completely, totally devastated without you. You are one of a kind.

Well, unlike you I’ll never remarry.

You’re going to have to. You have no idea where the grocery store is and you’ll die quickly if you have to drink your own coffee.

He still looked skeptical, so I had to use my last resort, my ace in the hole. I sprung up suddenly remembering I had to try something on.

Can you tell me if this dress makes me look fat?

You look better in it than 80% of the women I know.

Whoa, now hold up here. Only 80%? Does that mean 20% of the other women you know would look better in it? Who’s the one with the back up plan now?

I don’t have a back up plan. They broke the mold when they made you…… Thank God there is only one of you, he whispers.

Hey, I heard that….but he is already sleeping and one simply cannot argue with a sleeping man.

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