Whatchu lookin’ at? — a letter to my wife

An open letter to my wife after she saw me allegedly looking at the discarded Victoria’s Secret gift card sitting on the counter.

Dear Wife,

Your accusation and subsequent reaction to the general vicinity and focus of my eyeballs, toward what apparently was a Victoria’s Secret gift card hurts. It hurts quite a bit.

The problem is, you can’t be sure what was going on.

I’m sure with your eagle-like vision you know what you think you saw. Do us all a favor and put that talent to use by searching out icebergs on luxury cruise liners or catching fish from a lake (fish overpopulation is a scourge in many South American streams).

At that very instant during the moment in question maybe I was contemplating your Mother’s Day present (that’s coming up soon, right?). Maybe my gaze just happened to rest there as I reflected upon our relationship, from infancy – when I attracted you with my Aura of Masculinity – to our wedding day, to our most recent lover’s embrace. You just automatically assumed that, because I was a guy, I was somehow attracted to a good-looking, buxom 20-some lady clad only in a frilly brassiere.


Presumptuous much?

Thankfully, you flipped the card around so quickly I was unable to engage in any carnal activities with the tiny, two-dimensional woman half-woman. Who knows, her lower half could be a horse or whale? Is Victoria’s Secret advertising to mythical creatures? So many questions left unanswered by your diligence.

When you turned the card over to prevent what, in your head, was open-mouthed gawking, bulging eyes and a howling cartoon wolf hovering six inches over the with little animated hearts circling his forehead, you only succeeded in revealing another model’s waist and shapely derriere. You were just caught in one of the universe’s classic “Gotcha” moments.

Now, I realize that you may take offense to me describing the model’s derriere as “shapely,” but, really, even if it was a trapezoid it’d still, technically, be a shape. I don’t see how I should be chastised for using a common arithmetic adjective.

In thinking about it (not that I’ve done that in excess!), that horrible lady’s shapel – umFLABBY rear could’ve belonged to the SAME model that was shown on the FRONT of the card, but you did not give me the necessary time to make this connection so I’m forced to speculate.

“Oh jeez,” I believe were your exact words upon discovering Plan A: “Keep husband from leaving me for a four-inch, legless, two-dimensional vixen by flipping card over dramatically” was thwarted. You rejected my suggestion to attempt negative reinforcement, likening the demon card to the sun in that too much staring would be bad for one’s eyes, and after a couple of hours of uninterrupted viewing they would begin to strain and become uncomfortable.

I’m guessing the reason why you rejected this idea is because you just don’t understand psychology. Might I suggest night classes?

For some reason you were not receptive to my compliment that, in comparison, due to your current pregnant state, your bosom is far more ample. Though, you have a point in that I probably also shouldn’t have used the adjectives “weighty” and “voluminous” in my descriptions. The pantomiming of lifting and checking two heavy watermelons for ripeness, while I’m sure you’ll agree was very convincing, was also a poor choice. You have me there.

You should know I was not reaching for it to, say, put in my wallet. I wouldn’t set foot in the place. You know the store intimidates me to no end, what with the ladies talking to me with unmentionables hanging about shaming me. Far too much frill and female musk.

Plus, that stuff is entirely uncomfortable.

“There,” you said, triumphantly, attaching it to the clipboard with the clothespin strategically placed over the model’s ladyparts. Well done.

If only someone would invent another way to look at photos of lingerie models. Perhaps, one day, if science advances. Until then, every time I pass by the blonde’s face/torso obscured by the clothespin, I will be reminded of your triumph.

You have successfully foiled me. Bravo, brave purity knight. Bravo.

If you need me I’ll be sitting sadly in the corner NOT getting out our cribbage board staring at the Queen of Hearts and her dirty, dirty scepter.

Kelly Van De Walle is the senior creative & marketing writer for Briscoe14 Communications (www.briscoe14.com). He can be reached at vandkel@hotmail.com or via text message shaved into an afro from the 1990s. Follow Kelly on Twitter @pancake_bunny for tips on how to shape your body hair into an aggressive serpent to impress beach ladies.