There is a reason Captain America is the first Avenger.
Remember that scene in Captain America where Steven Rogers throws himself onto a grenade in order to protect everyone else from its blast? That was like, super heroic, right? I mean, it wasn’t a real grenade, but the puny little private didn’t know that. He assumed he was giving up his own life so that others could survive. And that was his first instinct, people.
No time to think — just JUMP!
Here is how the maths on that work out:
Perceived Danger + Hero = Instant Action
You know who ISN’T a hero?
My hubz is not a hero. He is a wonderful husband, and a terrific father. He provides for us and is loving, patient, intelligent, and hilarious. He has a lot of positive qualities. But my hubz is not a hero.
Example 1: My hubz is not a hero when there are bees.
On our way back from a very shitty, unromantic weekend getaway involving zero sex because we were staying with people who were all stressy-stressy the whole damn time, my hubz decided we should really stop to check out some Civil War thing. I was like, “Hell no, babes.” But then I remembered that his weekend was shitty, too, and I thought, “What the hell? I get to be a martyr if I say yes.” So I said yes.
Let me be clear.
I am not a history buff. I am not a fan of war things. The Civil War in particular bores and annoys me. I get very upset when I think about how those Masony-Dixony states seceded yet somehow think they have the right today to complain about anything. If I were in charge, I’d be like,
“Fuck you southern states. You are still grounded. I’m not seeing enough contrition. You will keep your mouths shut and not question my decisions for another couple decades. And that’s assuming you’re on your best behavior. Now eat your veggies and do your homework.”
I mean, Texas still thinks it is its own little nation.
And, having lived there, I can say with a small amount of authority (“small” because I was an impressionable teenager and also because I’m biased) that it kind of *IS* its own little nation. They are just not acting sorry about what they did. They aren’t even embarrassed. So yeah, grounding them is the least of what they should get as punishment for being all douche-y.
So I think I’ve made my position on Civil War things clear.
And thus, if I said YES to the stop, it would indeed make me a martyr. The whole rest of the way home I could ask for whatever I wanted, and my hubz would have to say YES, because after all, I did let him look at that Civil War thing, so he would owe me, right?
Oh, did he end up owing me.
It turned out that the Civil War thing wasn’t just a couple cases filled with paraphernalia and whatnot. It was an actual trail. And yeah, he totally wanted to walk it. So there I am in sandals, no bug spray, the height of summer, hiking through the goddamn hills of the Civil War. And guess what happened? Bees, that’s what fucking happened.
Bees don’t care about north and south.
They only care about stinging you and good. You might be thinking, “Oh, Andi-Roo, you shouldn’t have been wearing hairspray and perfume. That shit attracts bugs!”
Guess what, asshole?
I wasn’t wearing hairspray and perfume. I wasn’t even wearing makeup. You’re lucky I was wearing any deodorant, and honestly? It had probably worn off by then anyway. I do not subscribe to that 1950’s version of woman who must remain beautiful for her man at all times. I’m like, “Dude, you have a hairy ass. And also, testicles. I don’t have to be pretty for you, and you will love me regardless, or else I will stop washing your fucking underwear. Are we clear?” My hubz is a sweetheart. He doesn’t notice things like mascara, or new shirts. He loves me whether I’m in sweatpants or jeans.
That was a tangent just then.
My apologies. Allow me to continue.
So the bees came at us and it wasn’t my fault.
A hero — like Steve Rogers — would have placed me behind him protectively. But remember? My hubz is not a hero. He is an asshole. He ran away like a fucking baby and left me to get stung. I was running as fast as my sandals would allow, over hill and dale (whatever the fuck a “dale” is), through weeds and under branches that kept slapping me in the face, screaming, “Wait, wait, wait for me!” But my hubz was GONE. He left me on the Civil War trail to fend for myself. I got lots of ice cream and treats the rest of the way home. Martyr, indeed.
Example 2: My hubz is not a hero when there are zombies.
The event which occurred this evening is actually what brought our adventure with bees to mind. You’ve likely heard me report that my hubz and I both smoke, but never inside our house or our vehicles, because that’s disgusting and harmful to children and you’re an ass-hat if you do those things. So we were out back on our deck, standing around chillaxing with our smokes, when we heard a noise.
The noise was coming from the bushes next door.
And it sounded like a fucking zombie was going to burst out and eat our brains. I said to my hubz, “Oh, shit! There is a zombie back there and it is going to eat our brains!” My hubz laughed at me.
“No, it’s probably just a raccoon,” said my un-heroic spouse.
A raccoon would only be slightly better than a zombie.
Both will attack unprovoked.
Both prefer to come out at night.
Both have sharp teeth and fingernails, the better with which to tear you the fuck apart.
Both want to eat your brains.
Both are undeterred by stomping loudly on the porch in hopes that the loud noise will frighten them away.
The only way a raccoon is better than a zombie?
When a zombie eat your brains, it infects you so that you turn into a zombie yourself. When a raccoon eats your brains, you just die. So there’s that. Straight-up death versus zombification.
It turns out we were both incorrect.
A large black cat burst out from the bushes and ran straight for us. For realz. I’m not making this shit up. It ran straight for us… and then swerved and ran away. But during its original trajectory, my hubz showed his true colors. He didn’t place me behind him protectively. He didn’t jump in front of me to keep me safe. He ran across the porch and left me to fend for myself. Again. The bees taught that asshole NOTHING. Did I already mention that my hubz is not a hero?
“You would toss me to the fucking wolves,” I said.
“No, I wouldn’t,” he laughed.
I thought about this and realized he was right.
“It would take too long to throw me to the wolves. You would just leave me to the wolves. And hope I satisfied their hunger so that they wouldn’t chase you.”
He didn’t deny it. Because, why? Maths.
Perceived Danger + Hero = Instant Action
Perceived Danger + Hubz = Run away
Perceived Danger + Andi-Roo = Freeze and hope Perceived Danger doesn’t see me and can’t hear me breathing
My hubz is not a hero. It’s true. But there is some measure of comfort in knowing he wouldn’t feed me to a zombie before running off. My mom? Would TOTALLY throw me, my sister, and even herself to the wolves if it meant saving my dad. I guess in the martyr department, she wins, hands down. And I guess she’s a better wife than I am. Because I would TOTALLY throw my hubz to the wolves, now that I know the score.
Next time there are zombies, we’ll see who freezes and who runs away.