I’m sorry I’m a man. I’m sorry for my man odors and man breath. I’m sorry for my brutish tendencies and improprieties. I’m sorry for my irreverent demeanor and evil sense of humor. I’m sorry for the way my brain turns off when you talk and how I never seem to answer your questions. I’m sorry for my inability to cry with you once or twice a month, for my compartmentalized brain and heartless analytics. I’m sorry for my backwards philosophies and advocating of Satan. I’m sorry for my spicy dishes and obsession for all things weird. I’m sorry for my songs about death and cats. I’m sorry for my dirty laundry and unending piles of dishes. I’m sorry for my base desires and insatiable appetites. I’m sorry for my unpredictable opinions, my harsh critiques, my unfeeling, masculine dominance. I’m sorry I can’t stand quilting, Barbies, or velvet. I’m sorry I don’t obsess over babies and for the garbage they eat from the floor when I’m on duty. I’m sorry I make fun of your Reality TV and everything on the radio. I’m sorry I can’t see the good in Country Music or Hamburger Helper. I’m sorry for my evil hypothetical situations and relentless silliness when all you want to do is sleep. I’m sorry for all the burnt pans, the broken blenders, the shattered plates, the melted plastic, and the woodchips in our smoothies. In all things I seek to become more feminine. Let’s go to Zupa’s together. I’ll try my hardest not to make fun of the over-priced salads and chocolate-dipped strawberries or judge the 9 to 1 ratio of girls to guys as consisting of high-maintenance gluttons who think they’re above dollar burgers. I’ll listen to your dance music and reffrain from commenting on its themes of fornication. I’ll go Christmas shopping with you in July and pretend not to hate it. I’ll even put cheddar cheese on our crunchy “tacos” without any reference to the higher orders of the universe. If you will just forgive me for crimes of masculinity, I will do my best to become more feminine.