I Don't Need To Know

He described her in details making me believe that a vivid image of her was imprinted in his memory. High heels, naked calves, cleavage, sundress swaying in the air. No, those are not the words you and I would want to hear, especially from your significant other. But I did. I heard him say those words as he described the principal of the school where he enrolled his princess daughter.

Naked calves? What the hell is that? I don’t quite get it. And no, I am not the kind of woman that would look at a man and see which body part is naked and what is not. Hell I don’t even try to picture a guy naked even if I think he is the fucking hottest man around. No, I sincerely don’t.

Cleavage. Yeah, baby. Sure, she’s got cleavage. And I fucking don’t? Yes, sure, I don’t! It’s too bad I was late when the gods of cleavage were distributing them to the first 1 million women who showed up. Too bad I was busy raiding the refrigerator for another scoop of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream and I forgot I needed cleavage to be noticed. I’m glad I got some leftover brains from the brain gods. Because if I didn’t then I sure am fucked.

Sundress swaying in the air. Ooooooh. Nice, eh? Well, I don’t own a fucking dress and I do not plan on owning one. He can stare at women dressed in their nicest, flirtiest skirts and blouses, dresses and whatnots, but I am not conforming to what pleases his eyes.

Maybe I do not make sense, but hell, I hated his detailed description of her. Those are the words I can live without. Those are the things I didn’t need to know.

I wish I can erase the memory.

Done venting.