It's practically a cliché that if two women were caught with identical clothes at the same party, they would come to hate each other for the rest of their lives, and that party will be known as the worst they ever attended, compounded if it is the husband's company party!
If a guy finds another guy wearing similar clothes, an instant pride sets in, and they are likely to become friends for life.
“Taa Nabashad Cheezaki, MarDome NaGooyand CheezHa” [Where there's smoke, there's fire.], basically, every rumor is true to a certain degree …
I broke my bike handlebar on Saturday. Apparently the handlebar had fatigued and after consulting the scripts in Murphy's law, it was waiting for that perfect opportunity to break apart … it did in a well positioned race exactly as I was passing a guy and sarcastically told him “Good morning Lance”.
As upsetting and painful as it was, I got lucky and the injuries were pretty minor; I basically din't break any bones – I was scraped up pretty bad though with road rashes all over my legs, arms, and shoulder.
Since this wasn't my first bike accident, I wasn't sure which was going to be hurt more: The pain of the crash itself, the agony of the broken handlebar which I now need to replace which also means that I cannot use my racing bike for a few days in the middle of the racing season, or, that scolding, blaming look on my wife's face, and the follow up same old lecture when she sees me like this again!
I limped along to the first-aid station after which, I quickly drove home and sneaked into the garage. I was just about to take a shower in that Hydrogen Peroxide when my wife opened the access door and caught me standing there in the middle of the garage in my shorts, blood running down my legs and arms, with a big brown bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide in my hand.
… And yes, in a side by side test, the pain of that look was by far greater that any physical pain or any bodily injury I could have ever received. She was the undisputed winner and that look was worse than 100 FohShe Khar Madar … Those unspoken words, that facial expression, and that body language were more painful than crossing the Polle Sarat [Sarat Bridge, a mythical bridge that Muslims have to cross to go to heaven, and if they are guilty, the pain of crossing Sarat will be more excruciating than anything else in the universe!]
Her comments ranged from “Bahram, why aren't you more careful?!” and “How fast were you going on that bike?!” to “Did you even think?!” and “How come it is always you?!” all rhetorical questions that I can never answer and if I do, I get myself into more trouble.
“Actually honey, I love breaking the bike that I absolutely love and it took me so long to get, and, what can I say, the masochist in me is always on the look out for new ways to inflict pain”
“Sarcasm won't get you anywhere. Give me that bottle and let's pour that burning Hydrogen Peroxide on your wounds, it'll make us both feel better!”
Although I was in great pain, to prove that it was a minor accident and not a big deal, we went shopping the next day and accidentally ran into Dave, a racing friend, and his wife Ranae – David had also crashed moments earlier, right behind me in that very race and like myself, he too had brand new bruises and rashes all over his arm and legs and similarly, nothing broken. [I COULD NOW PROUDLY SAY: YES HONEY!!! THERE WERE OTHERS WHO CRASHED AND YES, WE WERE ALL GOING AS FAST.]
I'd seen David at the beginning of the race that day. We race for different clubs, and although I don't want to admit it, but when I saw him at the mall and found out that he had crashed, I had this hidden joy, glad that he didn't place ahead of me – I am confident that he was happy that I didn't place ahead of him. But when we started talking about the crash and acting like little boys, exploring whose developing scabs were more painful or “Hey look at this one, still bleeding”, it became very funny.
Come on! Imagine two grown men, our ages, in the middle of the mall, comparing scabs and rashes, ooing and ahhing !
We started to laugh, and a couple of comments later and a couple of “look at this one”, “look at that one”, and “I couldn't roll in bed last night”s, we were roaring and laughing so hard that my abdominal muscles started to hurt and tears were coming down our faces.
Taban and Ranae were not amused at all and just looked on without the slightest trace of a smile, or even a remote grin on their faces – stone faces these women are, I think all Venusians are like this!
When we parted, Taban said: “Aslan Khandeh Dar Nabood” [It was not funny at all].
Her comment, almost predictable, was explosively funny – I was laughing out of control.
While having breakfast (Paneer va Chai va Barbari) with my kids the following day, Dave called to see if I wanted to go for a ride. He said that Ranae told him, and then repeated practically word for word, everything that Taban had been telling me since my crash. He even said that Ranae also told him that his behavior at the mall was childish and it was not funny at all. The similarity of Ranae and Taban's comments were beyond funny. I laughed again so hard and got some of that sweet tea in my throat (Jast Galoom), which made me cough and some of the cheese came out of my nose. Now the kids were laughing, coughing up their food all over their plates …
While filtering out my Venusian wife's comments, threatening that the kids will grow up to be Bee TarBeYat [rude] and it was going to be all my fault, I was thinking “the cheese round trip, up my nose and back in my mouth, hurt more than the scrapes on my knees … I wonder if Faransavi, which has less salt, hurts more or Leeghvan?!!”