“I’m sorry, darling. I love you, but our love is simply too incongruous. We simply can’t be together.”
That’s what her Dear John letter informed me. Incongruous. What the heck does that even mean? Is that even a real word? I doubt it. I look it up in the dictionary. Sure enough, there it is. A real word. Fancy that.
It means, “Lacking in harmony; incompatible.”
Lacking in harmony.
I don’t get it.
Which one are we?
If we’re lacking in harmony, well. Sorry. I can’t help it if I can’t sing a note in tune. It’s not my fault. Blame nature. Blame my tone-deaf parents. Heck! Blame the whole nature vs. nurture thing. While we’re at it, blame Mozart.
As for incompatible…Well. That word mystifies me. Always has. Always will. In this case, it just makes me wonder what we’re incompatible at. Is this because I like to use Energizer batteries in our flashlights and she likes Duracell? That can’t be a good enough reason to break up with a guy like me. I’m decent. I’m clean. I brush my teeth at least once a week. Besides, Energizer is clearly the superior product.
Maybe I should call her and get a explanation. Only thing is, do I really want to find out why we’re incongruous? What if it’s something so deeply personal it will throw me into bleak, black depression? I don’t want to be depressed.
I really should find out before I get into another relationship. Don’t want to scare away any other girlfriends with my incongruousness. Whatever it may mean.
I should call her right now.
Yeah! I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna pick up the phone and I’m gonna call her.
Or maybe I’ll wait till later.