I'm The Hen

"That's because you're the hen," my friend said, in the spirit of imparting tablets hauled down from the mount.

"I'm the what?"

"The hen. He's the rooster and you're the hen."

"I'm not a hen. I'm at least a....well...not a hen," I protested weakly.

Joe elaborated on the notion that The Last One and I hadn't worked out because, while we apparently shared a genus and species (fowl, I take it), we did not share a vision. The zoological approach to finding Mr. Right hadn't ever really dawned on me. Bears I knew. Pigs I knew (and how!). And there's the ubiquitous Dog that we all have on our résumé. But hen? Had I not made a pact with myself not to be truly offended when I asked for honest feedback, I'd have really had my feathers ruffled.

Joe's Theory of Barnyard Fowl as it pertains to my most recent failed attempt at conjugation goes something like this: The Rooster feels entitled to have his pick of the hens...all of the hens...all of the time. The Hen is supposed to accept the fact that one Rooster can fulfill the Rooster Job Description in any coop by single-handedly nailing all the hens on a regular basis. Woe, however, unto the hen who objects to the extra-curricular roostering. That hen is put out of the coop. Or worse....doesn't get called back.

There is minimal foundation for this theory, so I continue to mull it. The Rooster had been trying to woo me for 2 years (not daily....refer to The Calling Plan) off and on while living with a Hen. I declined on the basis that I am, to continue the metaphor, a One Man Hen. So when the The Last One's Hen was revealed to have been entertaining other Roosters on the side, The Rooster himself was sent into therapy at the shock of the notion and The Hen migrated south (on Southwest, evidently, since we all know hens don't fly....much). Enter yours truly some months later. Wine and roses, empty promises and flat out lies ensued....and a few months later, the Rooster is on Southwest rejoining the Hen who would cluck around around on him and rejecting the Hen who just wanted to hang out for a while. I clearly do not understand chickens.

Nor do I understand why I must be The Hen. I don't feel like a Hen. OK, so I have a prominent nose that has been compared to a beak, I give you that. And I have been told that I have chicken legs. But not since the 80's have I stood my hair straight up at the forehead, so the resemblance stops there. But I know that I like the cocky swagger of a rooster and since roosters don't tend to mate with anything but hens, I guess I must be, on some level, a Hen. And Hens, Joe tells me, aren't supposed to notice or care that Roosters do what it is that Roosters do. They aren't supposed to point out that the Rooster hasn't called in several days, failed not only to attend the romantic getaway he suggested (but also failed to offer up his half of the rather expensive jaunt), or offered anything remotely resembling kindness outside the bedroom. Hens are to take criticism for their driving and should not offer to pay for meals because that bruises a Rooster's ego (even when the Rooster has no money and has said so twice on the way to brunch). Most of all, Hens who squawk about not having had contact in two weeks after letting the Rooster do "that" in "that" position that no other Rooster even got close to attempting.....are Hens to be put out of the proverbial coop.

It leaves me to wonder....if it's true at all... Once a Hen always a Hen? That would suck. Perhaps if I sit here in the back room and pluck feathers one-by-one (flash on Glenn Close clicking the light off and on), I can de-Hen myself. That should be attractive. I liked this story a whole lot better when he was just a creep and I was an unwitting, but fairly together, person who got caught in his dysfunctional crossfire. So to all my friends, for future reference....the animal comparisons cause me no small amount of pondering. I could use my time more productively. Whatever happened to good old commiserating where friends pick sides and agree that the other side should rot in the underworld from something slow, painful and debilitating?

"You're the Hen," Joe repeated, and went to get me another glass of wine.