I was painting walls in my house this weekend, which always makes me think of ancient Sumerian legends and the relationship between men and women.Between brush strokes and roller sweeps I was daydreaming about the Gilgamesh epic. If you’re not familiar with it, Gilgamesh was once considered to be the first real piece of literature in recorded history. I think I heard somewhere that it’s been knocked out of that place of honor by an Akkadian grocery list or something, but Gilgamesh is still dear to my heart.
The epic has several intertwining themes, like immortality, a great flood, etc., but the central theme and the one I find most interesting is friendship. King Gilgamesh has a great friend named Enkidu and, in many ways, the work is an ode to friendship. No coincidence, I think, that the first subject (or one of them) ever written about is friendship.
Men and women? Oh, yeah. I was getting to that.
When I was a young buck and pursuing the ladies, I was drawn to the things that young men are drawn to. A winning smile, French perfume, a D-cup, fancy dance moves, lies about how smart/handsome/macho I was. The usual.
As I got older I got wiser, although it didn’t seem to happen very quickly. I eventually began to realize what REALLY matters in a relationship.
Fast forward to the weekend just past. My girlfriend – Madame X – has watched me worry as I get ready to put my house back on the market this spring. Here in Michigan the economy is in the crapper. One result is way too many houses for sale and too few buyers. It’s going to be an uphill battle to sell mine.
Ms. X, who has her own house, has pointed out that if I did some fluffing and buffing of the old homestead I’d be much more likely to snare a buyer. The ol’ bachelor was finally forced to grumpily agree.
Friday night she arrived with old painting clothes and good intentions.
All weekend, probably a total of about 20 hours, she worked alongside me. We did the paint store thing, the yanking up of carpets thing, the washing thing, the priming thing and on and on. It really is miserable thankless work. Especially thankless for her since it ain’t her house.
Sunday evening she gave me a big kiss and disappeared.
At one point on Sunday I looked across the room at her. She was spattered with paint, her hair disheveled, biting her lip with rapt concentration as she wielded her paintbrush.
I’ve never loved her more.
So, you young knuckleheaded males … when you start to realize that your days of pollinating all the flowers in the garden are winding down and you think you might have met the one you want to be buried next to, ask yourself this question:
Is she friend material?
