One reason I’ve always favored writing papers over taking tests is that I like to know what’s immediately in front of me. I don’t want any wild card questions or subjects I haven’t prepared for. I want to control the narrative and be as prepared as possible before submitting what will ultimately be graded.
Well, it’s the same with relationships. Me? I’m awful when it comes to thinking quickly on my feet. If you ask me a question straight to my face, you’re either getting the complete truth or a half-assed attempt at a lie that will end with you saying, “I’m sorry, but no.” Then I’ll tuck my tail between my legs and grasp at every straw possible to get in your good graces.
If you’re not fielding these run-of-the-mill questions in a relationship yourself, listen in on a Frasier-esque “can I see you in the kitchen for a second?” conversation between your buddy and his girlfriend the next time you’re at a dinner party together. He’s probably getting the third degree about why he didn’t compliment her at a charity function two weeks back.
Furthermore, can someone explain to me why the cast of Frasier thinks no one can hear them in the kitchen when they are loudly talking about a private issue? They’re practically screaming every time. No? Alright, fine, you’re right. Let’s move onto the real questions.
What size do you think I am?
If there are two things in life I’m awful at, it’s gauging how old a baby is and knowing a woman’s size. Why is there a different size scale for women than there is for men? While we go Small-Medium-Large in addition to just having inches attached to everything, women have things like “petite” and random numbers that correspond differently in every country. Women using this sizing system is on par with the United States using the Imperial System over metric just to fuck with everyone else that doesn’t use it.
It feels like a group of women got together to coordinate this smoke and mirror show purely to have the upper-hand on a bunch of confused dudes trying to buy gifts for their significant others at Nordstrom.
How much do you think I weigh?
I don’t care if the girl that asks you this looks like Nina Agdal or Melissa McCarthy. The answer is always, “Um, I’m not sure. Like 115 pounds?” It’s such a loaded and preposterous question for a female to ask a male. Best case scenario? You say they weigh less than they do and they accuse you of undershooting. Worst case scenario? You give an uninformed answer and find yourself in the doghouse for the next month while she makes snide remarks about how you think she’s fat.
Do you think (name of her hottest friend) is pretty?
“She’s good looking but not my type,” because she knows you think her hottest friend is a dime. If you omit the “not my type” portion of your answer, you’re booking a one-way ticket to her ending an argument with, “Then why don’t you just go fuck Rachel if you think she’s so hot?”
Do you think (name of her ugliest friend) is pretty?
“Yeah, she’s got a great style,” because you’re not confronting the fact that she’s the B.U.F.F. of the group while also coming off as the nice guy by complimenting the most arbitrary thing about her: her clothes.
Does this make me look fat?
While every single bit of me wants to respond, “If you have to ask…,” there will never be a correct answer to this question. If it isn’t flattering on her, vocalizing that from a male perspective is solidifying that you won’t be seeing third base for the foreseeable future. If it isn’t flattering and you say it is? Then you’re the dude going out with a girl who isn’t comfortable in her own skin. And as a skinny-fat dude with no ambition to go running in the near future, take it from me that confidence is key.
Would you still love me if I got fat?
“Yes.” No nonsense.
Do you think I need to go on a diet?
“No.” No nonsense.
Are you really wearing that to dinner?
Yeah, babe. I’m not wearing a “shirt before the shirt” like I’m on an episode of Jersey Shore. I don’t understand rompers and high heels but you don’t see me passing judgment when I see a girl walking like a baby giraffe in a onesie that would fit a two-year-old. If I deem this technical golf shirt as being appropriate for this restaurant, you’re going to have to as well.
Did you just check out our waitress?
“No, but that ceviche appetizer she just brought out looked phenomenal,” is the answer Hitch would give you, but all of us Kevin Jameses of the world will just end up bumbling over ourselves while trying to come up with an excuse as to why our eyes were fixated on the the ass of the girl making $2/hour + tips.
Are you guys going to a strip club at the bachelor party?
First rule of strip clubs: do not retroactively talk about the strip club. Second rule of strip clubs: withdraw cash before and leave your debit card at home.
Being asked this is just a power move on the girl’s part. She knows you’re going to be in some grimy situations with your boys, and she’s indirectly letting you know that her eye is on you if you so happen to fuck up. Just express your “extreme distaste for everything strip clubs stand for” and hope she buys it.
What do you think our wedding hashtag will be?
W-w-wait, are we getting married?
Should I get bangs?
Girls getting bangs is like the g-rated version of getting a tattoo to change their look up. Who is the last girl to get bangs and stick with it for more than three haircut cycles? I’m going to say it was Zooey Deschanel, and her whole schtick is tired as hell at this point.
You don’t even know why I’m mad, do you?
Batten down the hatches and get prepared, because you’re about to be in the crossfire of an absolute shitstorm if you can’t properly vocalize her feelings in the exact way she expects you to.
Do you watch porn?
“I don’t know, have you seen Magic Mike?” Boom. Ball’s in her court. If she’s going to pay $10+ to publicly watch that smut, who is she to tell you that you can’t surf the web for free in the comfort of your own home? Double standards, man, I tell ya. .
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