My wife suggested we see Sex and the City.
"We never once watched the TV show. Why go to the movie?"
"We might like it."
"The New York Times called it 'vulgar, shrill, deeply shallow — and at 2 hours and 22 turgid minutes, overlong ...'"
"We should see it. Everybody is talking about it."
Now I know for a fact that not everyone is talking about it. I had just run into John Lewis, and he was not talking about it. He was talking about oil going to $200 a barrel.
I also know for a fact that mentioning John Lewis would confirm rather than disprove my wife's theory.
We went to Sex and the City.
Initially, I had trouble following a plot that involves four separate relationships. One is usually my limit. Also, I was distracted by calculating the agency commissions on the product placements.
"I'm lost," I whispered. "Is Steve married to Samantha or Charlotte?"
"Miranda? Then who is shacking up with Smith Jerrod?"
"Shhh," my wife explained.
When we go to a baseball game and she asks me to explain the infield fly rule, I don't say "shhh." I explain the infield fly rule. I guess different rules apply at chick flicks.
After a while, I whispered, "Nine percent."
"I think Vuitton is paying only a nine percent agency commission. I'm sure they got a volume discount."
Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte changed clothes seven times a day. I recognized some of the outfits.
"That's what Dr. Ming, the merciless ruler of the planet Zork-El, wore in Force Nine From Outer Space as he aimed the death laser at Detroit," I confided.
In another scene, they were all wearing outfits that looked to me liked prison jump suits. "What did they get busted for?" I asked.
My wife did not answer.
Carrie then appeared dressed like the goalkeeper for the Cincinnati Argyles. "She's wearing an Argyles uniform. Is she supposed to be a jock?"
Later, viewing the one more Vuitton bag, I turned to my wife. "Seven percent, tops."
But after the first hour, I was totally into the relationships.
"Ten bucks says that Miranda and Steve get back together," I offered, no longer whispering, since I was hoping nearby viewers would take the bet.
Getting no takers, I raised my voice. "I'll give odds. Eight to five." Still no takers. Only murmurs of "typical male," "jerk," and "dickhead."
After two hours, I was light years ahead of the audience. "I can picture it. Carrie and Big will get back together," I predicted. "They will move back to the apartment, and she'll have that great closet for her shoes. I'll try not to cry. But he designed that closet just for her — it's so moving!"
"You are ruining the movie for everyone."
"I apologize. I shouldn't have given away the ending. Not everyone has my facility for comprehending relationships."
Leaving the movie, my wife was fuming. "I will never, ever ask you to accompany me to another chick flick."
I thought my insights about relationships displayed sensitivity. I guess I will never understand women. And I won't get another chance to take her to a chick flick. But marriage is all about compromises.