One of the primary reasons I am not currently dating a supermodel is my wife, Marianne, won’t let me. She absolutely forbids it.
That’s just the kind of person she is.
What makes it even worse is she didn’t even tell me about the supermodel exclusion until after we were married.
Here is how it happened: Way, way back in the stone age when we were dating, she one day right out of the blue informed me that I loved her and I wanted to marry her. It was complete news to me.
“Are you sure?” I asked her.
“Positive,” she told me.
She’s just that type, mind you. Keeping information like that a secret then just springing it on you.
I figured, if that was the case, I pretty much had to go along with the plan and the rest is history. Of course, like I said, I conveniently didn’t find out about the “no supermodels” clause in our contract until years later.
The truth is I couldn’t name a current supermodel. I remember a few of them from years back like Cindy Crawford, who I always thought fell into the category of supermodels with exceptionally big eyebrows. (Note: If there are two things you prefer to be exceptionally big on a supermodel, take it from a typical guy – it isn’t eyebrows). There was one named Lauren something or other as I recall, and one who married Billy Joel or Ric Ocasek of the Cars, maybe both. Who knows? I didn’t really keep up with supermodels, because there’s no need to when you have been banned from dating one.
I don’t keep up with female pop singers for the same reason. Marianne didn’t expressly forbid me from dating them, but I can only assume they are on the list, too.
I usually learn their names on New Year’s Eve when Marianne wrestles the remote away from me, holds me at bay with a kitchen knife and forces me to watch all the New Year’s Eve celebrations going on across the country. Every show features two half-frozen announcers whose main talent appears to be the ability to smile manically despite their upper lip being frozen over with nose drippings. They are usually at an age when they haven’t listened to pop music in years yet they pretend to be ecstatic about the ‘mega-star’ or ‘international sensation’ they are bringing up next – none of who I have ever heard of.
The only thing that changes with each act is the people. The music is the same. The singing style is the same. Even the actual show is the same: Amid a background of pulsing light effects and whatnot, the singer comes out and gyrates along with a dozen or so background gyrators to a song that sounds identical to the song the other singing gyrators and their background gyrators just gyrated to.
There are so alike, I can’t keep up with who’s who. Back when my daughters were younger, this drove them crazy.
“Which one is this again?” I asked.
They would answer me in a tone that made clear they were addressing someone so old their skin was starting to harden due to fossilization: “Dad. That’s Cindi LypSinker! She sings, ‘I Actually Own Clothes that Fit Me, but I Perform in Clothes That Would be Snug on a Barbie Doll so I can be a Role Model to your Daughter.”
The next sensation comes on.
“Dad!” they cry. “That’s not a ‘she!’ That’s Brandon Warbler. He sings for Let’s Sound Like Everybody Else 7.”
“If that’s a guy, he needs a haircut.”
“Dad!” they bellow aghast at my blasphemy.
I did recognize one female pop singer once not too long ago. It was Beyoncé on a Christmas special. I recognized her because if she sneezes at a restaurant or parts her hair on the opposite side it is somehow newsworthy these days.
New Broadcaster: “Beyoncé chipped a nail on a diamond-studded wine decanter at a Hollywood fundraiser that seeks help for movie producers addicted to starlet groping. In less important news, forty miners were killed in a mine collapse.”
I will never forget Beyoncé, because right in the middle of the special, she stopped dancing long enough to belt out ‘Ave Marie’ dressed like a stripper.
Class act, that one. I wouldn’t date her even if Marianne said I could.
Obviously, starlets are off the list and I avoid the beach for fear of being mobbed by bikini models. “You’re off the list, too!” I’ll holler if I ever do get mobbed, but thank goodness I’ve been lucky so far.
Speaking of bikinis, I fish a lot and I notice many of the younger generation on the river are taking bikini-clad girls along with them when they fish. I can only assume girls in bikinis somehow help catch fish, else why would they bring them fishing? Once again, my wife intercedes and I am expressly forbidden from taking one with me when I fish. Forbidding supermodels is one thing. Messing with a man’s fishing success is criminal.
With all these restrictions, I sometimes consider calling it quits, packing up my stuff and moving to the wilderness never to be seen or heard from again, but Marianne says I love her and I would miss her and I couldn’t live without her.
Now, she tells me.