The Fifty Percent Solution

Ann Brown

By: Ann Brown

dead

Oh my GAWD. Robin is such a baby.

All I said to him yesterday was, “About 50% of the time, I wish you were dead”, and he cannot let it go. All day long – at the hardware store, at lunch, at the river – he’s all, “really? You wish I was dead?” And then I’d have to go over it again: “Nooooo. I said that 50% of the time I wish you were dead. Jesus. Do you even listen?”

God. He’s like idiot.

We ran into our friend Nancy Levine at the grocery store. We haven’t seen her in a long time. I was about two seconds into my hugging her and Robin breaks us up, taps Nancy on the shoulder and says to her, “Ann wishes I was dead.”

Talk about your mellow harsher. No wonder he has only, like, a hundred FB friends. The man needs to get over himself.

Nancy smiled that smile you give someone when you aren’t quite sure if they are going to set themselves on fire or something. Robin – and I give him credit for this – quickly added, “but only 50% of the time.”

Nancy let out a sigh of relief and said, “Oh. Well, sure. Who hasn’t wished that?”

Frankly, I’m still not certain if she meant “who hasn’t wished their own husband was dead 50% of the time”, or if she was saying “who in the world hasn’t wished ROBIN was dead 50% of the time?” but I kept my mouth shut because either way, the conversation was going my way. Plus, I’ve met her husband. He seems nice enough but after a few decades, I bet he gets on her nerves and she has to work off her vitriol. I see her around the hood, running. Running. In the rain. In the heat. She’s in incredible shape.

During sex last night, Robin was huffing and puffing and he said, “don’t worry. I’m almost at, like, 70% dead right now.”

You know, I am beginning to regret ever sharing my feelings with him. Now he’s making this all about him. “Oh, Ann wants me to die”, “Wah wah, my wife wishes I was dead, poor me”. And I have to keep patiently reminding him: Only fifty percent of the time.

I am like a saint, right?

He looked at me with wounded eyes. He was probably thinking, “what kind of she-devil did I marry? Who talks like this to their spouse?” And then he probably starting thinking about his old girlfriends, none of whom would have ever thought about his death, much less say it out loud. He probably wondered where they are now, and if they might be on Facebook and what their boobs look like. Hah. Dude, we’re all rounding 60 years old. We know what their boobs look like. Let it go. I’m sure they have.

He said, “is it so you can marry another man?'”

Oh my God. I laughed so hard I almost stabbed myself with my pitchfork. Men don’t get it.

“No,” I explained. “Why would I want to do that? Another man? More pee on the toilet seat? Another blow job I have to give?”

“Then why?” He asked.

“Well, because.” I said, “You know. Just because. It would be kinda neat. For a change up.”

He considered that for a moment.

“Couldn’t we just go on separate vacations or something? Do I have to be dead?”

Well, I just couldn’t upset him any more, so I agreed to separate vacations. Fine. No death. It’s a compromise.

Because they say that marriage is a fifty/fifty deal. But I really know what that means.

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