I’ve droned on before about how immature I am. I’m neither ashamed of it nor proud of it. It is what it is. And as near as I can tell, all guys are immature, stopping the personal growth schtick around age 13. The smart ones simply embrace and move on. I know I have. I’m 43 and I like playing video games, drinking in parking lots for three hours before a sporting event, fart jokes (good ones), and “That’s what she said.”
Luckily, my wife seems enamored (that means “tolerates,” yes?) most of my shenanigans. Whether this is in her nature or simply a “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” situation, I cannot say.
However, one part I know she’s on board with is our family game of “Punch Buggy.” Our motto is: It’s not domestic violence if it happens during Punch Buggy. It’s quaint but we like. I’m considering translating it into Latin and putting it on a coat of arms. So she loves her some Punch Buggy, but…she kinda cheats at it.
Here are the rules to our version of Punch Buggy:
1. You have to call out the color of the Bug, then punch
2. You get one punch for a modern bug
3. You get 3 punches for a classic bug
4. You get 5 punches for a Volkswagen bus.
It’s pretty simple, right?
I first became aware of her penchant for, shall we say, dishonesty, the first time we drove past a Volkswagen dealership and before I knew it, she screamed, “Dealership!” and began assaulting me about the arm and shoulder area. She got in six or seven punches before I could stop her and remind her that “Dealership!” is not a color and that what she was doing was cheating and not cool at all and quite frankly hurt. To her credit, she apologized, the began screaming out colors and resumed punching me. That was a very long red light.
Her second transgression occurred just recently in a store parking lot. A Volkswagen turned the corner toward us and she squealed with delight proclaiming it to be an “Old Volkswagen Bus.” You say it like that so you can deliver a blow with each syllable to make sure you get your 5.
Problem was, it was this:
A brief, um, discussion arose as I pointed out the error of her ways (because I’m a good guy like that, you see). She disagreed (and to this day insists that she sees no difference between the two). All of this was rendered moot when the DRIVER OF THE VAN pulls to a stop to back me up. He wagged his finger at her through the windshield as we approached and then informed her that she was in the wrong and that his van was too new to count, giving a incredibly detailed breakdown of the model years that legal counted in Punch Buggy.
I don’t know why, but this stranger’s intervention delighted me no end. I smiled about it for the rest of the day.
Okay, maybe that story isn’t that interesting to you, but I will cherish it forever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put some sheets on the couch. It seems entitling a blog post “My Cheating Wife” isn’t as funny for some people as it is for others.