Beware of Historians

I'm a historian. No, wait, I'm studying to become a historian. This means I'm in a perpetual state of studenthood even while approaching my 30th birthday. This also means that most of my furniture is free, I don't have a 401(k), and I've never had a "real job" unless you count that one time I worked in my undergraduate library when I wasn't a student.

This also means that I tell weird stories that don't make sense except to other historians.

Case in point: Last night as I was laying in bed, the clock ticking closer and closer to midnight, trying to force my body to adjust to the "spring forward" I had endured earlier that day, I decided to tell my husband how different our lives would be if we lived in the 15th century.

Me: Hey, if we lived in the 15th century, I would have been married for over 10 years and you would still be single.

H: Oh, yeah, that's true.

Me: (ignoring his uninterested tone) And I would have many babies. You might, too, but they would be bastards.

H: Yep.

Me: But you probably would have had an older male lover while you were in your teens.

H: What?

Me: Because that's what usually happened. An older man would take you as his lover. It was a stage of life thing.

H: I don't want an older male lover. That sounds unpleasant.

Me: But your unpleasant feeling is just a cultural construct. Back then you would have really enjoyed having an older male lover. Because that's what everyone did.

(silence)

Me: He would have given you blow jobs. Because the older man is supposed to be the active partner and the younger man is the passive partner, but with blow jobs the one receiving is the passive partner. Interesting, right?

(no response)

This is why your mother told you never to marry a historian. Or someone studying to become a historian.