I know why men go to war. Sit down and take notes because this may come in handy when you become President of NATO. I have a story to illustrate my point.
Last weekend, Hal and I tore up the nasty deck in the back yard. Horrible death trap that should have come out last year, but considering the list of things that had to happen to make this home safe and livable, it fell low on the list. “Watch out for the loose boards and don’t step on nails,” became a theme. So, we got hammers, a crowbar and sliver-preventing gloves and ripped it apart. Now we have a mud pit, which has provided hours of entertainment for my children and their friends. (Word of warning if you plan to have me babysit—I let kids play in mud.)
Then, this Saturday, Hal put on his loin clothe and ripped out the faux (read: ‘70’s) beams and “wood” paneling in the den. Wow. Some couples go to therapy, some go on retreats. Give my man a couple of tools and let him destroy something in our house and suddenly he becomes Apollo on his chariot.
So, women, we are to blame for war. Helen wasn’t kidnapped—she wanted to spice up her life with a bit o’ blood and pillaging and found an easy go at it with Paris. Aristophones had it wrong when he wrote about women refusing their spouses in order to stop war. Uh-uh, honey. I’m telling you, they wore their diaphanous best once they saw their men folk pushing back the tide with only a sword and shield. Like Circe in her lair, I found my Odysseus most becoming with filthy hair and wood chips flying. I’m sure there’s an evolutionary reason for the increase in love I’m feelin’. Guys with glasses and computers didn’t get the girls a million years ago, either. All I’m sayin’ is that I may love my man for his mind, but gee, it sure is nice to watch him sweat.