Howdy, dear daters!
It's been a while, but hopefully all is well in your love lives. I'm bringing you a guest submission from a sweet friend and reader who has a unique and perplexing situation on his hands. Here's hoping that one of you can give him a hand, so to speak.
HAPPY DATING!!
An odd situation arose in the bedroom for me the other day. My current girlfriend of a considerable amount of time and I were being intimate when I removed her shirt to find that she was wearing a brightly-colored, uniquely-styled sports bra that an ex of mine also owned. Naturally, I had also removed this same bra from my ex, and had some interesting thoughts running through my head in that instant. Not wanting to spoil the moment, I managed to carry on as if nothing was amiss. Needless to say (which is a phrase I hate hearing and hate using even more), I was a bit distracted by this revelation and proceeded to last a bit longer than I may otherwise have. This was greeted with delighted and repeated satisfaction by my love.
Though I was not specifically imagining that I was having sex with my ex, thoughts of her were on my mind while my current and I were engaging. I felt a little odd about this and thought I might share it with you, dearly beloved DIW community. I cannot simply ignore it, as I am certain that one day soon she will wear this same bra as we begin seduction and the same situation will play out. Not that it wasn't enjoyable for me to please my miss well, but the circumstances made me feel less than wholesome about it.
Should I surreptitiously dispose of this undergarment and be done with it? (Here I must add that my relationship with my ex was painful, tumultuous, passionate, all-consuming, and ultimately self-destructive. In addition, my current has some irrational hang-ups about my ex, a person she has never met and whom I have nothing to do with.) Please help, dear daters.
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Martyr Syndrome
This post may be a bit of a vent, but hopefully some of you can sympathize and/or back me up on this.
Do you have friends, family, coworkers, or whoevers that just LOVE to be the ones that are put out? They'll stand because someone might possibly want that empty chair; they'll ask for something and then complain when they finally get it; their favorite phrase seems to be "No, really, I'm fine. It's not that bad."
I have a friend like this. She's the friend that ended up in our "group," and she never quite got completely eased out. Her life is so rough, as demonstrated by the following email excerpt:
We're getting married in the fall. I'm actually finishing up save-the-dates,now. It's both nice having him here, and irritating at times. As excited as I was, for the first time in several years I've got no personal space or "alone time" which will take some adjustment. He's selling cars in a nearby town, which causes me a lot of stress too. However, it's a job and all I told him was find a job so he did just that.
Let us examine this statement. Her fiance moved across five states to be with her, but now she doesn't have enough personal time. She TOLD him to get a job, but doesn't like his job. She has everything she's asked for - nay, demanded - but it's never enough. Evident in this is the total control of the martyr. Their ability to complain is based on the fact that they control so much in their lives.
AND THEN THEY BITCH.
How does one handle this? Laying down the law doesn't seem to help - it just fuels their "woe is me" fire. One can try to prevent indulging their whims, but that's usually easier said than done.
Have you dealt with someone like this? How did you deal?
Do you have friends, family, coworkers, or whoevers that just LOVE to be the ones that are put out? They'll stand because someone might possibly want that empty chair; they'll ask for something and then complain when they finally get it; their favorite phrase seems to be "No, really, I'm fine. It's not that bad."
I have a friend like this. She's the friend that ended up in our "group," and she never quite got completely eased out. Her life is so rough, as demonstrated by the following email excerpt:
We're getting married in the fall. I'm actually finishing up save-the-dates,now. It's both nice having him here, and irritating at times. As excited as I was, for the first time in several years I've got no personal space or "alone time" which will take some adjustment. He's selling cars in a nearby town, which causes me a lot of stress too. However, it's a job and all I told him was find a job so he did just that.
Let us examine this statement. Her fiance moved across five states to be with her, but now she doesn't have enough personal time. She TOLD him to get a job, but doesn't like his job. She has everything she's asked for - nay, demanded - but it's never enough. Evident in this is the total control of the martyr. Their ability to complain is based on the fact that they control so much in their lives.
AND THEN THEY BITCH.
How does one handle this? Laying down the law doesn't seem to help - it just fuels their "woe is me" fire. One can try to prevent indulging their whims, but that's usually easier said than done.
Have you dealt with someone like this? How did you deal?
Monday, December 12, 2011
The Southern Girlfriend
I may be Southern, but I'm one'a dem progressive Southerners. Ya know, a pro-choice, pro-gay rights, Obama-sticker-toting, severely-lapsed Christian, progressive Southern. I thought I knew SO much about the world and was just too cool for my little red state. While these things may be true (hehe), my adventures with these West Coaster DIW girls have taught me something - I'll always be a Southerner. And really, that's okay. I'll have manners, respect, domestic skills, high expectations, and other pros and cons that we're prone to. However, as the sweet Serial Monogamist recently pointed out to me, I'm also a Southern Girlfriend.
Southern Girlfriend noun : A female from the Southern United States who, once in a monogamous relationship, shows a different side of her personality that exaggerates any tendencies toward bossiness, neediness, and short tempers.
I will admit that when SM called me this, it was kind of a shock. In fact, I was a mite offended once I realized what she was saying. I'd never heard this term, and I suspect she made it up, but I get it. I'd been snuggling with my dude after a hard day, letting him dote on me, and drinking it up. But in the meantime, I'd made sure he'd called his mother. And then I made sure he washed his hands before dinner (In fairness, he'd been rubbing my feet.). And then I used a baby voice for no apparent reason. And then I asked him to get me a drink. And then I pouted when he said something negative. And then I asked him to do something that I should've gotten up and done myself.
WHO AM I? What kind of person does this? Especially a person like me who never asks for help! This is the same boyfriend who I wouldn't let drive me (four hours) to the airport, and fussed at me for never asking for assistance. And SM was the one who told me that I should let my wonderful boyfriend do sweet things for me. So, is it the big shit that I'm against, but I can revel in the little things? Is it harder to say "no" in person?
Regardless, here's the great part of being Southern - if you find a Southern boy, he expects a strong woman and knows how to please her. Southern folks come from strong Southern mommas who rear great Southern men (and women). We like to be handy and helpful and to make others happy. I would argue that we really do have the last bastions of gentlemen and ladies who would do anything for the ones we love, and a hell of a lot even for a stranger on the street. Don't believe me? Ask SM - she fell hook, line, and sinker for a handsome, blue-eyed boy with a sweet Southern accent and a heart that will do anything for her. And his momma.
Southern Girlfriend noun : A female from the Southern United States who, once in a monogamous relationship, shows a different side of her personality that exaggerates any tendencies toward bossiness, neediness, and short tempers.
I will admit that when SM called me this, it was kind of a shock. In fact, I was a mite offended once I realized what she was saying. I'd never heard this term, and I suspect she made it up, but I get it. I'd been snuggling with my dude after a hard day, letting him dote on me, and drinking it up. But in the meantime, I'd made sure he'd called his mother. And then I made sure he washed his hands before dinner (In fairness, he'd been rubbing my feet.). And then I used a baby voice for no apparent reason. And then I asked him to get me a drink. And then I pouted when he said something negative. And then I asked him to do something that I should've gotten up and done myself.
WHO AM I? What kind of person does this? Especially a person like me who never asks for help! This is the same boyfriend who I wouldn't let drive me (four hours) to the airport, and fussed at me for never asking for assistance. And SM was the one who told me that I should let my wonderful boyfriend do sweet things for me. So, is it the big shit that I'm against, but I can revel in the little things? Is it harder to say "no" in person?
Regardless, here's the great part of being Southern - if you find a Southern boy, he expects a strong woman and knows how to please her. Southern folks come from strong Southern mommas who rear great Southern men (and women). We like to be handy and helpful and to make others happy. I would argue that we really do have the last bastions of gentlemen and ladies who would do anything for the ones we love, and a hell of a lot even for a stranger on the street. Don't believe me? Ask SM - she fell hook, line, and sinker for a handsome, blue-eyed boy with a sweet Southern accent and a heart that will do anything for her. And his momma.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Little comforts
I’ve been thinking a lot about exes lately.
And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’m not interested in that. Really, can’t we please, for just a moment, admit, all together, that it’s weird, so very weird, to have exes in the universe? I don’t want to pretend that I’ve moved on—which I have, in a sense. I’m not stopped, I’m not waiting, or weeping. I’m just thinking.
Isn’t it strange that there are people in the world that you used to lay next to every night (if you’re a cohabitating type of serial monogamist, at least), who now have these lives that don’t involve you? They have wives and girlfriends and fiancés and children, and you have new loves, and you live somewhere else, and why does that have to mean you can’t still call his mother? Why does that have to mean that you’re a stalker if you want to see a photo of his new family?
One reason I’ve been thinking is because I’ve been hearing a lot from an ex who was an item so long ago I hesitate to think of him as more than a very old friend. I was visiting home not long ago, and he randomly called. He didn’t even know I was in town, but he instantly started pushing to see me. I agreed to dinner at his intense insistence—he hinted at some sort of trauma. He promised he’d be pathetic, and offered to buy.
We got in the car, and I said, “So. What was all that? What’s up with you?”
“Right,” he said. “So, my wife left me.”
Of course she did. Although there was one point in my life that I’d considered him my backup plan, my safety, in case my life didn’t go the way it expected, I gave up that plan about four years ago when he told me he was having a baby. Since then, I’d been firmly in the camp that supported his relationship, and I’d even been charmed by his wife – and while we’re being honest, I’ll just put it out there. I’m prettier than his wife.
“Oh, buddy,” I said. “That sucks.”
“For her teacher,” he said.
“Yikes,” I said.
“Who is a lady,” he said.
“Oh, fuck.”
At dinner, he told me the whole sordid story. It’s pretty fucking tragic.
He knew our server, it was why he’d picked this particular restaurant. When the server walked away, my friend confessed, “he doesn’t know yet.”
This break had been sudden, and the whole thing had only gone down about three weeks prior. My friend described to me how he understood depression for the first time in his life.
“I wake up in the morning, and I can’t think of a reason to get out of bed. And even when I can, I just can’t think of how in the world I’m going to make myself do it.”
I hugged him, and got a little drunk with him, and said what little, weak things you can say to comfort a friend whose family has just been torn apart. Mostly I listened to him. And when our server asked what the wife and kid were up to, he got the bad news. When our bill arrived, I think it was $5.
“I’ve been getting a lot of free meals lately,” he confessed.
What little things we can do to comfort a friend.
Later, after I’d left town again, he texted me, saying he wished he’d been able to spend more time with me when I was in town.
“I have a lot of friends here, but none like you,” he said.
I’m not sure what he meant by that. In a literal sense, he doesn’t have any other friends who took his virginity. In another sense, he probably doesn’t have any other friends who have considered making a life with him. I’ve thought about what our kids would look like. I’ve considered whether I would take his last name.
But he probably didn’t mean any of those things.
And don’t tell me you haven’t. I’m not interested in that. Really, can’t we please, for just a moment, admit, all together, that it’s weird, so very weird, to have exes in the universe? I don’t want to pretend that I’ve moved on—which I have, in a sense. I’m not stopped, I’m not waiting, or weeping. I’m just thinking.
Isn’t it strange that there are people in the world that you used to lay next to every night (if you’re a cohabitating type of serial monogamist, at least), who now have these lives that don’t involve you? They have wives and girlfriends and fiancés and children, and you have new loves, and you live somewhere else, and why does that have to mean you can’t still call his mother? Why does that have to mean that you’re a stalker if you want to see a photo of his new family?
One reason I’ve been thinking is because I’ve been hearing a lot from an ex who was an item so long ago I hesitate to think of him as more than a very old friend. I was visiting home not long ago, and he randomly called. He didn’t even know I was in town, but he instantly started pushing to see me. I agreed to dinner at his intense insistence—he hinted at some sort of trauma. He promised he’d be pathetic, and offered to buy.
We got in the car, and I said, “So. What was all that? What’s up with you?”
“Right,” he said. “So, my wife left me.”
Of course she did. Although there was one point in my life that I’d considered him my backup plan, my safety, in case my life didn’t go the way it expected, I gave up that plan about four years ago when he told me he was having a baby. Since then, I’d been firmly in the camp that supported his relationship, and I’d even been charmed by his wife – and while we’re being honest, I’ll just put it out there. I’m prettier than his wife.
“Oh, buddy,” I said. “That sucks.”
“For her teacher,” he said.
“Yikes,” I said.
“Who is a lady,” he said.
“Oh, fuck.”
At dinner, he told me the whole sordid story. It’s pretty fucking tragic.
He knew our server, it was why he’d picked this particular restaurant. When the server walked away, my friend confessed, “he doesn’t know yet.”
This break had been sudden, and the whole thing had only gone down about three weeks prior. My friend described to me how he understood depression for the first time in his life.
“I wake up in the morning, and I can’t think of a reason to get out of bed. And even when I can, I just can’t think of how in the world I’m going to make myself do it.”
I hugged him, and got a little drunk with him, and said what little, weak things you can say to comfort a friend whose family has just been torn apart. Mostly I listened to him. And when our server asked what the wife and kid were up to, he got the bad news. When our bill arrived, I think it was $5.
“I’ve been getting a lot of free meals lately,” he confessed.
What little things we can do to comfort a friend.
Later, after I’d left town again, he texted me, saying he wished he’d been able to spend more time with me when I was in town.
“I have a lot of friends here, but none like you,” he said.
I’m not sure what he meant by that. In a literal sense, he doesn’t have any other friends who took his virginity. In another sense, he probably doesn’t have any other friends who have considered making a life with him. I’ve thought about what our kids would look like. I’ve considered whether I would take his last name.
But he probably didn’t mean any of those things.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Throw Up in Your Mouth Alert
I'm not the Rom-Com type. I hate cheesy romantic stories where the chick gets swept off her feet by Matthew McConaughey (why is he in every one of those god-forsaken movies?) and I typically retch when told cutesey-wootsey tales of love. Valentine's Day is bullshit as are most things having to do with Disney's version of true love.
It is with this disclaimer that I post what is most assuredly the grossest romantic thing to ever happen to me. Even I was like, really? That's so sweet it hurts my teeth.
I was in an outpatient surgery center a few weeks ago recovering from a minor procedure that included conscious sedation. I was just coming to but was still pretty out of it. I turned my head to see my big handsome boyfriend sitting by my bedside smiling.
"Mmmmmmmmhhiiiiii..." I mumbled before drifting off again, feeling comfortable and safe knowing he was there.
Later he told me that a beep from the heart monitor alerted him to the fact that my heart rate slowed down by about ten beats per minute when I saw him.
Apparently being in love is the best medicine.
It is with this disclaimer that I post what is most assuredly the grossest romantic thing to ever happen to me. Even I was like, really? That's so sweet it hurts my teeth.
I was in an outpatient surgery center a few weeks ago recovering from a minor procedure that included conscious sedation. I was just coming to but was still pretty out of it. I turned my head to see my big handsome boyfriend sitting by my bedside smiling.
"Mmmmmmmmhhiiiiii..." I mumbled before drifting off again, feeling comfortable and safe knowing he was there.
Later he told me that a beep from the heart monitor alerted him to the fact that my heart rate slowed down by about ten beats per minute when I saw him.
Apparently being in love is the best medicine.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Unwanted Gifts from My Ex
I've received a recent spate of letters from an ex. They don't actually include anything written. The only way I can identify they are from him is by the ever changing return addresses, all of which include some pot reference or something similarly lame in the street name.
The first one was a crushed penny with a stamp of the lady and the tramp. You know those machines where you put in a penny plus a few quarters and you get back a now worthless piece of currency? I wish I had thought of that business model. Fucking brilliant.
But lady and the tramp? What? Did I miss some romantic memory where we watched the Disney movie over a plate of spaghetti? I don't get it.
The second was his driver's license, which actually has meaning in that he knows I collect other people's identification cards. Ok, that one gave me a small pang. Until I realized his driver's license photo looked a lot like his mugshot they showed on the news.. Yeah. Don't ask.
The third letter was a bumper sticker from a bicycle shop in his home town. It said "Share the road with a cyclist" and had the shop's name and address. I like bikes, sure. I even ride them frequently. But I'm not a "cyclist" by any stretch of the definition. If it had been something about a motorcycle, maybe, but again, what?
I was telling a friend about it over breakfast and he asked if I sent anything back. Thus far I've taken the silent approach but his question sparked an idea:
Send him my hair that collects in the shower drain.
The first one was a crushed penny with a stamp of the lady and the tramp. You know those machines where you put in a penny plus a few quarters and you get back a now worthless piece of currency? I wish I had thought of that business model. Fucking brilliant.
But lady and the tramp? What? Did I miss some romantic memory where we watched the Disney movie over a plate of spaghetti? I don't get it.
The second was his driver's license, which actually has meaning in that he knows I collect other people's identification cards. Ok, that one gave me a small pang. Until I realized his driver's license photo looked a lot like his mugshot they showed on the news.. Yeah. Don't ask.
The third letter was a bumper sticker from a bicycle shop in his home town. It said "Share the road with a cyclist" and had the shop's name and address. I like bikes, sure. I even ride them frequently. But I'm not a "cyclist" by any stretch of the definition. If it had been something about a motorcycle, maybe, but again, what?
I was telling a friend about it over breakfast and he asked if I sent anything back. Thus far I've taken the silent approach but his question sparked an idea:
Send him my hair that collects in the shower drain.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Where Were You in 1983?
**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a gal who said she loves DIW. Glad someone is actually reading this trash..**
I'm 23 and the guy I'm dating is 36. Despite the thirteen year age gap, we get along really well and have a lot in common... Aside from our memories associated with music from before about 2005.
The other day we were playing cards and drinking wine at his place, and he had a 90s station playing on the satellite radio. A song came on from 1996, and I told him how it reminded me being at Girl Scout Camp in third grade. A look of horror came over his face as he realized that while I was selling cookies and earning my Brownie Try-It badges, he was 23 and divorcing his first wife.
We switched the station to some current indie rock, and silently agreed not to tell stories from our childhood anymore.
I'm 23 and the guy I'm dating is 36. Despite the thirteen year age gap, we get along really well and have a lot in common... Aside from our memories associated with music from before about 2005.
The other day we were playing cards and drinking wine at his place, and he had a 90s station playing on the satellite radio. A song came on from 1996, and I told him how it reminded me being at Girl Scout Camp in third grade. A look of horror came over his face as he realized that while I was selling cookies and earning my Brownie Try-It badges, he was 23 and divorcing his first wife.
We switched the station to some current indie rock, and silently agreed not to tell stories from our childhood anymore.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
He's No Cull
**Editors' Note: Today's guest post hails from Lisa S. about the first time her parents met her new boyfriend.**
Mom really wanted to meet my new squeeze, so we made plans to do a dinner together. Mom was nervous, and maybe I was a little, too. I wanted to keep it mellow and casual, so I suggested burgers and beers. There’s one spot my mom and I have been going to for years, it’s out in the country a bit, and they have delicious greasy burgers and crunchy, flavorful onion rings. That’s what I suggested. But mom wanted to invite a friend, whom I love, and friend had gotten sick at Delicious and Greasy before, so we went to the local pub. The local pub, which smells super bad. Like toilets, now that you can’t smoke in there and the cigarette smell’s not covering up the toilet smell.
But whatever. Squeeze and I have been to dives before, and we will go to many dives in the future. But here’s what was really charming: When we showed up at my mom’s place at 4 p.m., she was already working on a cocktail. OK, whatever. We all went down to the pub after mom finished what was at least cocktail #3, and we all ordered a round. When mom’s drink was set down in front of her, she took one sip and said, “Nope. This is no good. Bring me a double.” OK, whatever. I like a good drink, too, and sometimes I want to tie one on, too.
But here’s the really, really nice part: As soon as we order food, mom goes over to the ATM, pulls out some cash, and then plunks down in front of a video poker machine. Sure, when the burgers come, she comes over to eat, and yes, she’s being very nice to squeeze, but as soon as food’s gone, it’s another cocktail and back to the video poker machine.
Finally, I shouted at her from across the bar, “Mom, we’re tired of watching you play video poker, we’re out.” She seemed disappointed.
Later, she drunk-dialed me and told me how much they liked the squeeze. Not sure how they knew that they did, but OK. Whatever.
Here’s one more reason I know he’s awesome, though: Took it all in stride. No judgment, no complaints. Just shrugged it off and said, genuinely, how nice she seemed. He’s certainly no cull.
Mom really wanted to meet my new squeeze, so we made plans to do a dinner together. Mom was nervous, and maybe I was a little, too. I wanted to keep it mellow and casual, so I suggested burgers and beers. There’s one spot my mom and I have been going to for years, it’s out in the country a bit, and they have delicious greasy burgers and crunchy, flavorful onion rings. That’s what I suggested. But mom wanted to invite a friend, whom I love, and friend had gotten sick at Delicious and Greasy before, so we went to the local pub. The local pub, which smells super bad. Like toilets, now that you can’t smoke in there and the cigarette smell’s not covering up the toilet smell.
But whatever. Squeeze and I have been to dives before, and we will go to many dives in the future. But here’s what was really charming: When we showed up at my mom’s place at 4 p.m., she was already working on a cocktail. OK, whatever. We all went down to the pub after mom finished what was at least cocktail #3, and we all ordered a round. When mom’s drink was set down in front of her, she took one sip and said, “Nope. This is no good. Bring me a double.” OK, whatever. I like a good drink, too, and sometimes I want to tie one on, too.
But here’s the really, really nice part: As soon as we order food, mom goes over to the ATM, pulls out some cash, and then plunks down in front of a video poker machine. Sure, when the burgers come, she comes over to eat, and yes, she’s being very nice to squeeze, but as soon as food’s gone, it’s another cocktail and back to the video poker machine.
Finally, I shouted at her from across the bar, “Mom, we’re tired of watching you play video poker, we’re out.” She seemed disappointed.
Later, she drunk-dialed me and told me how much they liked the squeeze. Not sure how they knew that they did, but OK. Whatever.
Here’s one more reason I know he’s awesome, though: Took it all in stride. No judgment, no complaints. Just shrugged it off and said, genuinely, how nice she seemed. He’s certainly no cull.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Getting used to new things
I think it's strange what we can get used to, and how these things don't seem at all strange at the time, not until they're undone.
A recent meeting with an ex highlighted the point for me. Poster Boy and I were getting together for one final exchange of stuff.
(Or we thought it was final, that process seems neverending, the unentwining of things, pictures, friends, bank accounts, tax documents. Everso thankful there had to be no courts involved, no kids, even more)
More than six months had passed, the holidays were over. And we'd both moved on, and both had new people in our lives. Somehow, this was the first meeting at which things were comfortable. I could tease him without getting nasty. We could laugh without following it up with sad silence. No one cried, no one yelled. There was a brief, awkward hug (I refused to shake his hand. That seemed stupid). We shared a beer. He asked me about the New One, I gave up only as much info as I was willing to, danced around other questions. Then Poster Boy, in classic form, asked, "if this dude" was going to try to find him and fight him or something. I laughed, admitting New One had asked the same question of him. But then I answered, "No, no. He's really nice," and immediately after saying it, I realized that there was noticeable surprise in my voice.
Poster Boy looked at me, "Oh yeah? He is? I have that, too," he said, eyes wide, incredulous.
We nodded together, slowly.
"So, do you guys fight?" he asked.
"Oh, no. No." I said, "You?"
"No, huh uh."
We looked at each other, shaking our heads. Shrugged. As if we'd had no idea such a thing was possible.
A recent meeting with an ex highlighted the point for me. Poster Boy and I were getting together for one final exchange of stuff.
(Or we thought it was final, that process seems neverending, the unentwining of things, pictures, friends, bank accounts, tax documents. Everso thankful there had to be no courts involved, no kids, even more)
More than six months had passed, the holidays were over. And we'd both moved on, and both had new people in our lives. Somehow, this was the first meeting at which things were comfortable. I could tease him without getting nasty. We could laugh without following it up with sad silence. No one cried, no one yelled. There was a brief, awkward hug (I refused to shake his hand. That seemed stupid). We shared a beer. He asked me about the New One, I gave up only as much info as I was willing to, danced around other questions. Then Poster Boy, in classic form, asked, "if this dude" was going to try to find him and fight him or something. I laughed, admitting New One had asked the same question of him. But then I answered, "No, no. He's really nice," and immediately after saying it, I realized that there was noticeable surprise in my voice.
Poster Boy looked at me, "Oh yeah? He is? I have that, too," he said, eyes wide, incredulous.
We nodded together, slowly.
"So, do you guys fight?" he asked.
"Oh, no. No." I said, "You?"
"No, huh uh."
We looked at each other, shaking our heads. Shrugged. As if we'd had no idea such a thing was possible.
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