…or is it just me?
Over the last few days, I have been forced to undertake some extremely arduous, manual labor.
Yes, I’m capable of these physically taxing chores, but I find myself not just resenting having to do them, but a society that has apparently decided women are, can be, and should be, completely self-sufficient, and certainly capable of doing anything a man can do.
Men and women are created equal, but nature has created us to excel in different areas, to compliment, support and to nurture as our gender dictates.
I don’t want to lift a 400 lb wooden beam and load it into my car, or carry un-sanded sheets of plywood and scrape my hands.
Perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps I’m lacking in character or moral fiber, or possess some other flaw that makes me want to be a woman who doesn’t do all those things; a woman who is soft, gentle, nurturing and supportive. I want a man to be a man, and open the door, carry in the groceries, and do the heavy lifting.
Sometimes I feel so frustrated, I just want to strangle all the “I am woman, hear me roar,” feminists. I don’t have any desire to roar. I want to purr, and curl up in the lap of a strong, sensible, deliciously Dominant man, a man confident enough to allow me to be exactly who I am, and not see me as weak or fragile, but simply not built to do the physical things he can.
A Dominant man confident enough not to surrender to the demands put upon him to be something other than what nature intended him to be.
Please, open the car door, and my hand will melt in yours.
Please, carry that plywood for me, and I’ll make you the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had.
Please, hold me when I cry, and don’t ask me to be tough and hide my sorrow.
Please, hug me when I’m happy, and celebrate my little victories.
In return, I will love and respect you just the way God made you.
I will bring you pizza as you watch the football game.
I will type your letters and bring you coffee.
I will bake the proverbial cookies, and not ask you to watch Harry Met Sally, not ever.
Perhaps I’m completely off base. Perhaps this is just me. Perhaps I am living in the wrong era.
Is there something wrong with simply wanting to be a woman, and do what women do, and having a man in my life who is happy to be a man, and do the things men do?
When did this all go so horribly wrong?
Or perhaps it didn’t, and it is just me after all.