One evening I was sorting through clothes in the bedroom while Tink, settled in a comfortable chair, was (as usual) fiddling with his phone. A message he read triggered a story.
He began to tell me a brief story (men leave out a lot of details) about a guy we know and a woman he had recently been dating. There was nothing particularly special about the story unless you are a woman wise in the ways of other women.
“What?” I asked as I took a dress off a hanger. I heard what he said but I couldn’t believe it. He repeated it.
I smiled that all-knowing grin of mine, the one I inherited from Mama. “Within six months, she’ll be pushing for marriage.”
Tink has no respect for my precious inheritance, that of being a wise and prophesying know-it-all. He rolled his eyes and shook his head then swirled around in his chair to face me. I knew he was serious because he put down his phone.
“They just starting seeing each other,” he protested. “It’s casual. Just friends.”
“He thinks it is just casual, but she is a woman with a plan. Six months. Trust me.”
Tink set his jaw. It is a determined jaw when he does that.
“You are wrong,” he said firmly. “That is not going to happen.” He shook his head again, adamantly. “You are wrong.”
Just an aside here: When one is painting one’s self into a corner, it is best to leave a trail to get out. “Think” makes a good pig trail for escaping, such as in, “I think you’re wrong.” Another good one that I like to employ is, “I may be wrong but I think…”
Usually Tink is reasonable and not one bit arrogant in thought or manner. That would not be the case on this occasion.
“No, I’m not.” I was equally firm.
“Let’s bet,” he said. Our bets usually ride on buying me a new pair of expensive high heels. “I’ll bet you two pairs of high heels.”
Whoa. He was serious. Two pairs. In less time than it took Sherman to strike a match, I took the bet.
“You’re on.” I smiled confidently and he nodded with equal confidence.
A couple of days later, over dinner, Tink, who is honorable and will always take his dose of medicine, said, “Oh, by the way, I think I’m going to lose that bet.”
I perked up. “Why?”
He repeated a conversation that had happened which brought additional credibility to my prediction. If only I had been born during Old Testament times, I could have been the first female prophet.
He shrugged. “So, I guess you’re right.”
Humility in the face of victory is admirable. That would not be me. A woman who can smile demurely and drop her head modestly when she is right, is appealing and attractive. That would not be me.
As usual, I declined to take the high road. “Let me ask you something,” I began, a teasing smile sliding across my face. “Why on earth would you bet against me on something like this? I write books on women like this, on how women can use their wiles and charms to get the man they want. Why would you even question me?”
He’s a good sport. He rolls with the punches and, as a result, most of our disagreements have a comical flair to them.
He shrugged. “I keep thinking that one day I’m going to win one of these bets.”
I laughed. “Just remember: Two pairs.”