Valentine’s Day is rapidly approaching, and the Male Sibling Unit’s thoughts have turned to love.
Yes, you can groan inwardly, like I have, because the thought of the Male Sibling Unit being romantic makes me slightly sick to my stomach. Any thoughts of a family member in the throes of passion causes that knee-jerk reaction; the desire to stuff one’s fingers in one’s ears and yell “NONONONONONONONONONO” until the conversation is drowned out. Ew.
It is a double-edged sword with the Male Sibling Unit, though. His disability makes it so. He is, in a word, awkward. In his mind, intellectually, he really is an 8 year-old sometimes. With life experience, though, he has learned to fake being an adult. You know, like most of the male population! He knows romantic protocols, like taking his lady out to dinner, dancing with her at functions, calling her “Sweetie” and making all the appropriate gifting gestures. I am not saying he is totally genuine about it, because it really is all about him, even if it is all about her. The premise is great, but his mind doesn’t work that way. He rarely does an unselfish thing “just because” since his mind cannot function in that capacity. If he buys her a gift, it becomes a constant musing of “What is she going to think? Is she going to tell me thank you? Will she think I did a good thing?” It is about his gratification, and not anyone else’s. He needs the validation as much as he needs air to breathe. He wants everyone to ply him with compliments about how thoughtful he was. It sounds like a terrible characterization, but it’s just the truth. And we – everyone who knows and loves him – understand his ways, and we wouldn’t want him to be any other way.
Anyway, Valentine’s Day is coming up, and he and his lady are going out to dinner. He was given a gift card for a local restaurant at Christmas by my daughter and son-in-law, with the suggestion that he use it for himself and his girlfriend; a nice, romantic dinner. He was ecstatic and they started making plans right away. They decided to wait for Valentine’s Day, and now the event is nearly upon us and as usual, it is all I am hearing about.
“We’re going to Beefeaters Wednesday! ”
“I think Carol is going to be so happy that we’re going to Beefeaters on Wednesday.”
“I wonder what she will say to me?”
“I think she is happy about this, that I am taking her to Beefeaters for Valentine’s Day.”
Get the picture? Now, expand upon this. This is the topic of discussion every day, the entire time we are home together. When we are not home together, he texts these pronouncements to me throughout the day. In between, of course, we talk about a few other subjects, like the next time he will be going to his community center and how many tests strips he has left to check his glucose and Oh-My-Fucking-God there are only 12 left and what does that mean? We made all of his prescriptions automatic refills, so he will not have to count pills and decide when to call in for refills and so on, but these old habits die hard and it usually takes me having to remind him, once again, that he has automatic refills and how that process works. By the end of the explanation, I need a refill of blood pressure medication for myself because there is not enough of it in the world to bring my pressure back down.
So yes, romance is in the air, and now, we are discussing things like what kind of gift he should give her and what they will be eating at their romantic dinner. They discussed this at length, apparently, and the evening of romance will include two fish dinners.
They are quite certain about that, don’t need a menu, so it is set in stone. The gift? This is much more difficult for me. For who, you ask? Why for you? Well, because the Male Sibling Unit does not buy gifts. He delegates this task to me because it is less about the choosing than it is about the actual giving. I guess he trusts me to purchase something that will elicit the response he craves, which is “Oh look! You are so thoughtful!” And he will take credit for that shit 100%; there will be no bashful admissions that “My sister picked it out” because nuh uh! He is a wily fucker! He wants that adoration for himself!
I know; you think that his reasoning is that she will be so bowled over by his romantic overtures that she’ll give it up, and he is hoping to get laid, right? A normal, 42 year-old man would think that way. And again, I cannot stress this enough: Ew. But if you’re thinking that he is thinking that she’ll be thinking along these lines, think again.
The Male Sibling Unit is the real-life 40-Year-Old Virgin. Correction: make that 42, and quickly closing in on 43. He has never actually kissed a girl, except on the cheek. If one suggests kissing on the lips, and even more, with tongue, he comes undone in a cacophony of giggles and hoots and 8 year-old exclamations of “Eeeeeeewwwwww!” that quite frankly puts any 8 year-old to shame in the dramatic overtures department. To suggest that he actually have sex evokes a honking, hyena-like fit of hysteria that sounds a little bit like Tiny Tim singing and a donkey braying in simultaneous chorus. Then, when he calms down, he whispers, “Ew. Ew. Ew.” in a creepy little voice.
The Male Sibling Unit does not like mess. Or dirt. Or anything sticky, or, well, anything that excretes bodily fluids. He says he likes boobs, but I am dubious. Does he? Really? And it is certain that he does not find vaginas attractive, because he can’t even say the word without disintegrating into fits of horror, disgust, and hysteria. The physical act of sex, even simulated on tv, stresses him out so badly that his legs twitch spasmodically and he erupts into nervous outbursts of “SEX” and “They’re humping” and “Breasts”, the latter which he utters in a creepy, insidious voice that would make any woman (or man, for that matter) run away in fear. Think Golem in The Lord of the Rings, saying “My precious” and you have a pretty good approximation of the Male Sibling Unit uttering “Breasts.”
Alas, no wining and dining the lady; giving her gifts, and coming off as a debonair Jimmy Stewart-esque leading man on Valentine’s Day is definitely not on the roster for Wednesday. To be honest, it will more than likely be he and his lady, accompanied by me and the husband, because he isn’t really good at the tipping thing or the ordering thing or the paying thing. The last time he and the lady went to a sit-down restaurant that did not include an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet or the golden arches, they ordered nearly everything they liked on the menu, because my son was the chef at the restaurant and was comping them (in other words, he was paying for it as a gift to them) and it was a brunch menu. They ordered, well, everything: pancakes, bacon, eggs, toast, sides of fruit, big glasses of orange juice, muffins, french toast……the total came to nearly $50 at a place where two people can eat enough to last them for a day for about $28. And that’s if one of them splurges on cannoli! My son said. “Wow, they must have been hungry.” Nope, they just didn’t really know better and since they didn’t have to stick to a budget, all bets were off! Since they DO have a budget this time, we will tag along just to make sure everything goes okay. We might even sit at a different table, just to give them their privacy. That way, the Male Sibling Unit can take full credit for the stuffed bear he has required I buy for him to give her, but a task which I foisted onto the husband to purchase for him because he is at Walmart every fucking day and the less I have to see of that cesspool of hate, the better.
I take my peace of mind where I can find it.