I must be stupider than I look

By David J. Coehrs

Over the weekend, I was informed that I now have a man table.

Those are the words my beloved used. She was rearranging the furniture, something she likes to do now and again, not only for aesthetic purposes but to harvest everything that collects under chairs and bookcases since the last time she moved them. It's makes for a really exciting treasure hunt, although the only treasure we usually find is pennies and old snack chips and fuzz-covered breath mints, which sometimes taste okay after they're rinsed off.

Well, she kept hauling stuff around, and I kept saying, "Dear, let me help you with that" and then standing back and watching while she pushed and pulled and shoved heavy wooden pieces, hoping she wouldn't take me up on my offer. I don't have a bad back or any ruptured body parts that would have prevented me from lending a hand, but she's a strong, independent woman, so I wanted to support her effort to assert herself. (You female readers just keep quiet.)

She got done with the living room and started on our bedroom, and that's when she announced the man table. What it is, is an old, narrow nightstand she decided she could live without. But instead of selling it or placing it at the curb for the garbage truck, she decided to crowd all of my things on top of it and call it my man table.

Of course, it's a ruse so that she can gain more space atop our chest of drawers. But the way she made it sound you'd think I should have dropped to my knees and kissed the flaking nail polish on her toes.

"It's all yours," she said sweetly "You don't have to share it with anybody. From now on, all of your personal stuff can go on your man table."

When my ego is stroked like that I'll usually fall for anything, including being had by my wife, who has long believed she has only to flash those incredible brown eyes to get anything she wants. But when I looked at the skinny-minny nightstand, and saw all of my things piled precariously on the equally skinny-minny top and sliding every which way, I knew she had done me wrong.

"So that's it," I said, tight-lipped. "That's the fabulous man table where all my manly possessions will be kept."

"Isn't it great?" she replied a little too enthusiastically. "At the end of the day you can put your pocket change on there, and your watch, and your keys, and all of your other manly stuff, and you can stand next to it with your arms folded and say in a deep voice, "THIS IS MY MANLY TABLE!," and the boys and I will go, "OOOO! AHHHH!," and the boys will beg you to let them put their stuff on your manly table, and I'll say, "No, boys, it's only for a MAN!"

Now, I knew deep in my gut that that was some of the worst hooey ever to dribble from her mouth. But her eyes sparkled, and she affectionately rubbed my shoulder and whispered my pet name (it rhymes with "stink bug") and her intentions started to seem reasonable. After all, she was only looking out for my manhood. In truth, how many women would make this sacrifice, giving up an old, wobbly nightstand with a loose drawer handle and cat scratches all over the legs so that the man of the house can make it his personal furniture? Sure, it was a little too small and narrow, but I don't need much space. Why, that was obvious by the way she had already taken over all of my dresser-top space and ... and ...

"Hey! That's my dresser-top space!" I yelled.

"But you don't need it anymore," she said soothingly, "because now you've got your man table."

I turned around. The boys had apparently watched the entire exchange, and were staring at me in disbelief. It was one of those looks that only a guy truly understands, and requires no explanation.: "You're even stupider than you look."

For my own personal investigation, I've gone back and re-read our marriage vows a few hundred times since the ceremony, so I knew nothing in them said anything about a rickety man table. My wife had been vying for more space since we unionized, and it was time I filed a complaint.

"I don't want a man table!" I said. "And you can't just waltz in here and take over my man space! Now remove your stuff over there and gimme my manliness back!"

She seemed hurt, and her eyes swam with tears. "I'm sorry ... I just ... wanted so much to give you your own man table ... something I personally find ... so enormously attractive about you ... I mean ... who would've guessed a man table would make you even sexier ..."

If I even out the legs and give it a coat of varnish it will look really nice. (You female readers just keep quiet.)