MARRYING KIND? HOW TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE

Being the marrying kind takes practice. Eventually things work themselves out.

From the relationship vault:

A few weeks into a sizzling new romance, Lovey and I were in my Lovejoy apartment late one night when the building buzzer started and wouldn’t stop.

I got up and pushed the front door button. After all, the place was full of loaded Portland buzzer-pushers who’d lost their keys.

The buzzing stopped, but a minute later the pounding on my door was worse.

To save it I put on a pair of shorts and opened the door.

A man charged past me trailing the stink of booze and weed, and started throwing my things on the floor.

Pro Tip: Don’t open any door to an ex-boyfriend who doesn’t know they are an ex.

He tipped over a bookcase, stomped my bike, then a lamp, and it looked like I was next. After he ripped my phone out of the wall, he took a martial arts stance.

I was impressed by how fast he trashed the place, though it was a small studio. It seemed like he’d followed a script from bookcase, to bike, to lamp, to phone. What was next, a phone cord whipping?

I felt like punching him for the way he’d cut loose on my shit, but if I pounded him the way he deserved, Honey might take his side out of pity.

So I waited.

Besides I wasn’t sure I could take him since he had an edge of dumped-dude rage and probably a case of crazy man strength along with being drunk and high numb.

If he kicked my ass, what would he do to his ex?

That’s a question the marrying kind asks.

I needed to step up before he went off again. 

From his fighting stance he swung a back-fist punch that I rolled off the side of my head, followed by a spinning roundhouse kick that I turned away from my groin.

He went for the double, a headshot with a ball ringer, and missed twice. Either he missed or I could take a punch better than I thought. Since I didn’t have regular fistfights for comparison it’s hard to tell. 

While he caught his balance, Sweetie made a dash for the bathroom to hide behind a locked door. He saw the move and scooped up my floor scale and sailed it at her like a track and field discus. He missed and left a hole in my wall.

With the women out of the room, I gave him his options while we stalked each other in a circle.

Pro Tip: Don’t talk too much.

“That’s it,” I said. “No more free swings. No kicks, or I’ll break things off, like your leg. Leave or I’ll knock you out and throw you down the stairs. I might do it either way. Let’s go.”

I jab stepped toward him and faked a punch, bobbed, weaved, danced side to side, mimicking Smoking Joe Frazier, watching for another tricky punch or kick; he moved toward the door, looking tired after a one punch and one kick fight.

I was warming up and stayed in a defensive crouch in case he wasn’t as finished as he looked.

“Keep going,” I said. “If I come out there, I’ll curb stomp you.”

I talked shit and jumped around to solve a problem, a problem for the marrying kind.

The Marrying Kind Question Answered

I faked another lunge, and he left. I had a big mess in a small place to clean up when my girl came out of the bathroom.

“So, it looks like you broke up this time?” I asked, holding the plastic telephone line.

“I broke up with him months ago. I thought he understood,” she said.

“Tonight ought to clear things up. I’ll have to get new stuff to break if he comes back.”

That was the garden where our love grew. 

Thirty five years later the ground is still fertile for new adventure.

Have you ever fought for your girl, taken a few hits? Maybe you should think about it. The memory of the moment is lasting.

And she will know something about you that others don’t.

Pro Tip: Never let on that you’ve had other fights over girls. One is enough to fight for when it lasts.