Real Women Belch

My wife belches better than me.

Does this say something about me as a man…or about her as a woman?

I suppose the answer could be neither…or either, but that’s hardly the point. The point is this woman, whom I love as life, whom I claim as my very own – can really let it fly!

She has an undeniable – I’ll not say God given - talent. She is absolutely without peer in this area. A genuine prodigy. A true master of her craft. Van Gogh had his paint brush. Babe Ruth had his bat. My wife – I think it’s mostly dairy products.

A glass of milk and a slice or two of pizza and belching the alphabet in one breath becomes child’s play. “Mary had a little lamb”?...No problem. The Declaration of Independence?...Please. War and Peace?...Ok, that might be a stretch.

But seriously, it’s really embarrassing…I mean when I belch. It’s just so weak!! Quite frankly, I’m ashamed of myself. I can’t even begin to compete. I am like Roseanne to her Pavarotti. Like Hanson to her REM. Like Keanu Reeves to her John Malkovich…Whoa! Like Sonny to her Cher…wait…he was the less talented one…right?

You get the idea. Me - bad. Her - good…REALLY good.

The funny thing is, I’m strangely attracted to her more simply BECAUSE of this talent.

What does THAT say about me as a man? Does it make me more shallow? Does it make me deep? After all, it IS an attraction based on her “inner” beauty.

Quite frankly, I think it just makes me blessed.

And us a lot more fun at parties.