Bertha and I made love again last night, and then we had a huge argument. Here’s the understatement of the year — I don’t get women.

Bertha knock-walked into my condo last night and acted as if everything were perfectly fine with our relationship, as if a week hadn’t passed since our ferocious coital embrace.  The thought crossed my mind that perhaps she considers Wednesday our dedicated night of love-making.

She must have seen the puzzled look on my face, so she said, “We must trust in life’s sacred spontaneity.” Then we made love. It went off better than last time in that none of my key body parts were crimped, but when I asked to be on top, Bertha said no because she’d had a bad experience that way. When I asked if I could be behind her, she said that position is “reserved.”

I went through another wild flight of emotions during that 10-minute period. If I had written this before our argument, I would declare myself to be the luckiest man in the world, and I’d ask for advice on wedding rings. I was fully alive.

Then she told me — quite matter-of-factly — that I had obvious problems with intimacy, and that she was going to make an appointment for me to see a certain therapist.

I don’t want to get into the rest of it. We were mean.

In my defense, I don’t like being told to see a therapist, especially right when I was basking in the glow of sexual intimacy. I definitely shouldn’t have said the things I said, especially the part about her needing to lose weight by being towed by a rope behind a jeep. I meant it as an analogy to what she said about me, and she thought I was criticizing her for being overweight.

I wanted to apologize or at least explain, but I couldn’t stop crying, so I just called her names, and then she started calling me names. Some things just can’t be unsaid.

Isolation score: 4?