It’s a Sore Subject

Stored in the recesses of a woman’s brain are some sore spots put there mostly by men. These raw, unresolved irritants, small and large, can become volcanoes. You know an eruption is near when you hear, “That’s a sore subject with me.”

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Men are at a distinct disadvantage in relationships with women. They stumble and stutter their way stupidly through life, ignorantly attempting to please women. They grope for the wall for direction like blind men on the streets of Calcutta. They live lives of dread, fearing they’ll inadvertently touch a nerve that sets off ‘a sore subject.’

‘Sore subjects’ are ‘Bouncing Betty’ land mines, explosive devices buried just beneath the surface of memory. They lie harmlessly underground, waiting to be tripped. Very bad things happen when they pop up.

Most men live in toxic fields strewn with land mines of previous ‘sore subjects.’ They wander around clueless in the fields of relationships, rarely realizing what dangers lie hidden underground. Past detonations that didn’t maim or kill a poor sucker are soon forgotten.

These mines can lie undisturbed for years. The explosive power is not diminished but often increased in the waiting process. If discovered, they must be removed with caution. Carnage is the result of carelessness. Walking on egg shells is sound advice, men.

Sometimes an audible ‘click’ is heard when you step on a land mine. Maybe there’s a delay in the explosion, but the ‘click’ is ominous, like hearing the very voice of God saying, “Hello, Welcome!” You freeze in your tracks, afraid to move, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Whichever, you know nothing good is going to happen now. You’ve ‘stepped in it,’ so to speak.

Often the ‘click’ triggering the mine is a silent one. But you intuitively feel you have set something horrible in motion. Like the silence that permeates your home just before the storm of ‘a sore subject’ shows up. You know it’s about to happen. The air is thick. You check your cell’s weather app. It advises to seek shelter in the basement.

Words can also trigger the monstrous device, words like, “I’ve been thinking…”, or, maybe it’s something like, “What were you talking to HER about?” Harmless conversation, you answer. It’s the perception, stupid. Besides, no man recalls anything he says. Women forget nothing. The past is unrecorded history to men. They are doomed to repeat it.

What causes these ‘sore subjects?’ Well, the list is long, fellows. Try taking a stroll in some of the Fields of Sore Subjects and reflect on your culpability.

Start in the Field of Selfishness. You, selfish? No way. Hold on…she’s tired of cooking, wants to dine out, but you say, “But baby, it’s Monday night football.” You just planted another mine.

Then there’s the Field of Stupid Comments. It’s a mine field sown with words of thoughtless blabber. Such drivel gushes forth without filter from the lips of men and litters the landscape with multiple sore-subject warheads.

Wander around the Field of Domestic Neglect. Say what? Domestic neglect? Homes are the domains of women, you say. You don’t do dishwasher duty, and bed-making is beneath your status. Wax the floor? You can’t be serious. Call Handy Dan. Gotta go. What’s for dinner? Sound familiar?

Now enter the Field of Never Convenient. Convenient to your schedule, that is. After all, who’s more important? Oh, you don’t say that, not out loud, you instinctively think it. You just planted five more explosives.

Over there is the Field of Wilted Flowers, also known as the Plot of Broken Promises. It once flourished with beautiful wildflowers. But now it’s a dry and dusty hardscrabble land just waiting for a match to incinerate the stubble of your empty rhetoric.

Next door is the Field of Screwball Excuses. It’s mostly a worthless rock pile of idiotic deflections, denials and artful dodges from doing mundane chores around the house. You never know under which rock a sore subject hides.

The Field of Insensitivity is a weed-choked gully of red, impermeable clay, much like the gray matter cortex in your brain. It’s the mother of all sore subjects, because nothing seeps in. It’s a replica of your alter ego.

As long as there are women, sore subjects are here to stay. Deal with it.

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The best sage advice I have is this: Figure out your own navigation system and avoid all sore subjects. Otherwise, change your address. Good luck.

Bud Hearn
November 13, 2018