Having acknowledged, at a very early age, the indispensability of women, I had to find the answer to only one question: which one?
The girl I found was a hormone driven boy's dream come true, but she was also given to outbursts of sentimentality. She's still that way today. She's a buddy. Women bore her. She insists on buying her round, but she secretly hopes that doors will be opened for her because she's really a quivering jelly of feminine sensitivity.
She crawls from room to room, gratefully whimpering when she finds masculine disorder and piteously hurt by any indications of masculine independence. She is what writer Patrick Catling described as a "sweetly scented pink octopus of maternal solicitude."
She keeps looking up from her Sudoku (above) to smile. She wields a thermometer like a magic wand.
She's a terrible weight pressing hotly on the shoulders, a hobble, a blindfold, a distracting sound, a thick wad of fly-paper in the Kleenex box. But she is necessary.
The tests have been numerous, but the final outcome had already been decided long ago when we were both councilors at the same Summer camp.
BTW: This is a much altered version of a tome by children's author, Patrick Skene Catling.