The key to understanding women is amazement. (And mercy on their part.) They make the best sense when one expects them to be mysterious wonders, like the aurora borealis or ducks. (I suppose one of those seems more fantastical than the other to most people, but I think such people aren’t giving the aurora borealis enough credit.)
I provide this wisdom for free; use it well.
Now I figure I’ll talk about women’s bodies, which always surprise me with their versatility. (Come on, I couldn’t very well lead with this; people might get the wrong idea.) To illustrate what I mean, let me recount for you my experience listening to a certain popular song by Miley Cyrus. (Don’t judge me; there was nothing else on the radio. Also I’m probably three times your size.)
And yes, these are the sorts of things I think when I listen to popular music. (For this you can feel free to judge me. Also, I got these lyrics from a place called metrolyrics. The song is called “Party in the U.S.A.”)
LYRICS FOOLISH THOUGHTS
“That’s when the taxi man turned on the radio
And the Jay-Z song was on”
I wonder if I should know who that is.
“And the Jay-Z song was on”
Clearly he’s important. I guess
Jay could be a woman’s name.
Maybe she’s important.
“And the Jay-Z song was on”
How many radios were turned on exactly?
“So I put my hands up, they’re playin’ my song”
She put her hands up in the cab?
“The butterflies fly away”
I wonder if she realizes that
she’s mixing metaphors.
“I’m noddin’ my head like ‘Yeah!'”
I don’t understand the grammar,
but this makes enough sense.
“Movin’ my hips like ‘Yeah!'”
I might talk with my hands. I might even “vote with my feet.” I wouldn’t know where to begin involving my hips in communication though. They mostly just sit there, or rather they mostly just let me sit there. Or anywhere else I want to sit. That’s it; their versatility extends only to seating options.
When I thought about it further, I realized that the song pointed to a larger reality I’d managed to overlook: women’s bodies are of an advanced design. They’re the iPad 3 to my awkward doodle which vaguely resembles something that could be mistaken for an early prototype of what might become an Apple IIe.
Miss Cyrus isn’t even the first woman to mention casual hip-based communication as though the feature were commonplace and obvious. Consider the Shakira song “Hips Don’t Lie.” My hips can’t talk, but hers apparently make factual claims that are subject to verification. (Now I’m wondering if women’s hips could testify in court. My mind is a strange place.)
Almost immediately I understood that my wife has been doing this all along. Sometimes, when I’m being particularly obtuse for example, she’ll cock her hip to the side as though to say, “Are you honestly expecting me to put up with this?” If I tried to do that, I would just end up in the hospital trying to explain how I had dislocated my hip during a peaceful conversation.
Ironically, these realizations have produced in me a singularly feminine mannerism: I look at my posterior in the mirror sometimes now. I’m not wondering if my pants make me look fat; I’m frustrated because my hips are such underachievers.