The Main Thing

“The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.”
- Stephen Covey

 

 I found that quote today on a website called Goal Setting College 

 

I was so sorely in need of motivation that I was searching inspirational sites for guidance. The last few weeks have been challenging for me on many levels both personally and professionally. I’ve been all over the place emotionally and have been focused mostly on holding it together and keeping the lid on until I had a better grasp on my composure. When I begin to feel overwhelmed I find it important to keep that lid on because, for me, my coming unglued is something of a whopping failure. 

 

No matter what diversion or relief I sought, nothing seemed help me shake off this mood. Unbalanced and unsettled, my efforts to regain my normal equilibrium kept failing. I was unusually quiet and ignoring friends and not wanting them to see my lack of composure … see my failure.

 

So this morning, while I was looking for a joyful quotation to lift me up,  I unearthed a nugget of a quote that made me stop and think about what main thing needs to be my main thing. All that was swirling around me and affecting my balance made it difficult to single just one out. That was the problem … I had made too many things my main thing. I was unbalanced because I was allowing too many things to affect me when most of them should have been relegated elsewhere.

 

I spent the better part of today examining what was important enough to be my main thing at present. Work issues? Friendships? Family issues? Relationships? Each integral to my well being and peace of mind. Each valued by me as worthy of my worry. I suspect I will spend a good deal more time on that examination because I am not really near to a conclusion. Life is complicated and “things” are not so easily dispatched. I’m happy, however, to have found a sense of direction. A renewed purpose to occupy me. I am happy to have realized that before I can go any further I have to figure out what main thing needs to be the main thing.

 

From there….it will be a piece of cake. It always is.

Indeed

What Did You Just Not Say?

In a recently published biography of Barack Obama, writer David Maraniss recounts some details a former girlfriend of the President, Genevieve Cook,  reportedly disclosed of their romantic relationship some 30 years ago. At the time the President was a student at Columbia University and their relationship was described pleasantly enough. Thankfully she didn’t wander toward the  salacious aspects of their relationship and thus, for me, her account carries with it a certain amount of credibility as former girlfriends go. The most racy comment Ms. Cook offered up was, ”the sexual warmth is definitely there“. Short and sweet and well said. Bravo.

 

Regarding her summation of their relationship, I got stuck on her recollection of Barack Obama’s response to her telling him,  “I love you“. She says his response was, “Thank You“. The author’s perceptive purpose in dangling the Leader of the Free World’s simple rejoinder seems clear enough albeit he’s left it for our own interpretation. Indeed.

 

The story of Ms. Cook’s experience with the President got me thinking. It got me thinking about my own I Love You’s, both given and received.

 

I Love You. I say it all the time to those I love and I mean it every time I say it. Whether it is to one of my children, who have been hearing those words even before they made their appearance in this world, to family and to good friends, cherished friends, who have earned my love along the way. I say it all the time.

 

Then there are those who I love and have loved romantically. A more complex admission for me, given my need for careful control and a little thing I like to call , “enthusiasm, tempered with restraint” when it comes to relationships. In a relationship, if I tell you I love you … I don’t do so easily or capriciously. My admission, my expression of this feeling, has been carefully considered and in doing so I’m giving something that I consider quite valuable. Valuable indeed and historically has cost me dearly. But I digress.

 

I love to hear the words spoken to me. I’m appreciative and sufficiently pleased to be afforded such a lovely gesture of affection from someone who loves me. I feel the love in the words as well and the lingering feeling that remains when the words later take up residence in my head. Words to figuratively reach toward, words to warm and soothe when such things are needed.

 

And when the words aren’t spoken, their absence can be daunting. When you find you need an I Love You and there is none to be had it can be unsettling. Having said that one shouldn’t interpret their absence as the absence of love itself. Perhaps the absence of the words is something else altogether.

 

Barack Obama’s response to Ms. Cook’s ILY, if it is to be believed, may be simply that…something else altogether. His Thank You didn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t love her. He may very well have, very much so, and his word choice might have been precisely the manner in which he chose to express his love. There are many reasons a person may not say the words. Many, many, many reasons. They may not feel free to do so. They may not know how to express the feeling. They may not feel worthy for having the feeling to begin with. They may not want you to know they have the feeling. They may feel the need to protect what needs protecting. They may feel the words will do more harm than good for having been spoken and their omission a form of love itself. They may feel the words will change the relationship. They may also be simply not ready to say it at all.

 

Whatever the reason, it’s not ours to judge them or second guess them for it. They likely have their reasons. I know I have.  

Indeed.

The Storybook at Table 18

Friday night I was lying on the sofa and the film Moonstruck was on HBO for the umpteenth time. No one was home and I was mopey and bordering on falling over the edge into a good wallowing session. I am more than a little sick of spending most Friday nights by myself this way. I felt it coming on all day and I knew how the night was going to end up. The movie didn’t help matters and I should have just shut it off and gone for a walk or done something to shake my mood. Unfortunately I rarely walk away from a good wallowing if I can help it. I have myself convinced that I need a good crying jag one once in a while to relieve tension.  Truthfully…don”t we all?

 

Watching the film, there is one particular scene that gets me every single time. Nicholas Cage’s character, Ronny Cammareri , has fallen in love with Cher’s character. At a key moment he launches into the quintessential ”we’re not meant for each other speech” that pretty much states exactly why they are indeed meant for each other….

 

I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn’t know this either, but love don’t make things nice – it ruins everything. It breaks your heart.

 

It makes things a mess. We aren’t here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit. 

 

To say that Ronny is a realist is an understatement. I almost love him.

 

After the movie, when I went to bed, I slept soundly from having worn myself out … wallowing. Saturday I woke up full of energy and ready to go. Later in the late afternoon I attended the wedding of the daughter of a co-worker of mine. It was to be another night flying solo for me. My husband wasn’t really wanting to attend the event to begin with, and after the suggestion was made at work that we all attend dateless and “just the girls”, he was only too happy to bow out. 

 

There was plenty to enjoy at the wedding. The venue was held at a wonderfully elegant location and everything was top shelf from the cocktails to the meal. I was really enjoying myself and the company at the table. The music started and the talk turned to favorite songs and musical artists, concerts we attended, wedding songs and romantic songs. I couldn’t help myself, my mind started drifting. Damn music.

 

Regardless of the fact that I was there alone by choice, I felt very much so. Alone in a crowded room is a feeling that can, for me, be both comforting and unsettling in equal measure. That night, however,  it was the latter in spades. I’m sure the fact that I was at a wedding played into my little moment of reverie as well. Sitting at the table, lost in my own head, watching old married couples dance, my mind went back to that scene in Moonstruck and the words I was stuck on the previous evening. 

 

The storybooks are bullshit. 

 

There is little about my life and the way I live it that resembles what I imagined it would be for me. That may be true of a lot of folks’ lives but I really thought that I had a plan and I could make mine play out accordingly. I thought I was one of those people who got what they wanted in life. Not because I was charmed or privileged, but because I had worked for it, because I made a lot of sacrifices and made good decisions. I thought I’d get there just like the storybooks predicted I would because I had done everything I was supposed to do. I put the time in and I did the work. And then some.

 

But you know what? Maybe the storybooks are bullshit. Love is messy and imperfect because we are messy and imperfect beings. While some of us may have a plan, a really good plan, those we walk through life with don’t necessarily follow it along with us or perhaps even know how to. Neither do they necessarily want to sometimes. For as much as I want to believe, for as much as I know I deserve that storybook ending, I just may have to face the facts. As Ronny Cammareri would say…

 

It don’t look too good. 

Indeed 

Magic Words

 

 

 

 Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.

 

 Professor Albus Dumbledore

 

The quote is attributed to Professor Albus Dumbledore of the famed Harry Potter franchise. The words, so beautifully arranged in that particular order by author J.K. Rowling, bespeak of something few people have a complete grasp of understanding. Words are magic.

 

Ms. Rowling’s own grasp of the magic of words was life changing for her. Her successful career notwithstanding, she has mastered her ability to use her words to create magic, literally. Putting pen to paper and creating a world in which great sadness and tragedy can be trumped by sheer goodness of spirit and love, she brought magic to life for those who took part in the unfolding of the story of Harry Potter. There was far more magic in her words than was ever taught or performed at Hogwarts School. The magic, I dare say, flowed from her fingertips through her words and into our hearts.

 

I believe in the magic of words. I’ve witnessed this magic firsthand. I also fear it. For in the magical properties of words that soothe and comfort, in the wondrous transfer of emotion from soul to soul through words intended to evoke pure joy and elation, there can also be an element of pain from those with an ability to inflict it upon us. There can also be an absence of conscience wherein the lack of the words themselves can be most hurtful of all. Their absence, their withholding,  difficult to understand and often even more difficult to bear. Waiting for their arrival, hoping for the magic they can bring, an endless exercise in futility that can border on the hopeless.

 

We need to be aware of the power our words hold, we need to accept a certain amount of responsibility when we cast them toward others. In my own experience I’ve been delighted by the fact that a few of mine have hit their mark and, having been sent with kindness and love, the target was the better for it. I’m also mindful of the power of careless missives, direct and unsoftened commentary, that I know has stung. Regretful though they may be , they are also sometimes necessary.

 

I think we’ve all had an experience with a situation in which we’ve heard someone say, “I wish I had some magic words…” in attempting to offer condolence or comfort.  With good intentions, this person simply lacks the ability to express themselves adequately. They mean well but they don’t know what to say. They don’t understand how to take some simple words and infuse something from inside of themselves, a feeling, an emotion, and thus creating the magic.

 

A few weeks ago a co-worker sent me an email. The email came after a somewhat tense meeting between departments. A veiled accusation had been tossed on the table, a cowardly move, one without the benefit of the full picture of the situation at hand. The meeting ended and I had to hurry to make a conference call meeting in just a few minutes time. It was then, after the call, that I walked back upstairs to the desk of the person who was the target of the earlier veiled accusation. I didn’t know what to say, in fact I don’t even recall exactly what I said, but I spoke to her. Later, when the email arrived, reading the words I sat there numb with emotion, their magic was so wonderfully apparent.

 

My co-worker was touched that I had taken the time to walk up there and talk to her. Because of the time-lapse between the meeting and my appearance at her desk she thought her boss had prompted me to do so because she had had a quick cry after the meeting with her. I didn’t know how upset this co-worker was but I did know the accusation, or rather the words that were used, were misdirected and delivered inappropriately and so I quietly told her so. Her response was to use her words later to tell me what she thought about me as a person and the way I conduct myself and the manner in which I treat others. I printed it and have stashed the email in a safe place for me to pull out again on a low day when I need some magic. I have it on good authority that such things, such messages, can work wonders in us when necessary.

 

So it is in that magic that I find myself desiring to be immersed. Immersed in the magic of words. Words given to me by another with whatever magic they may hold. Fully aware of their potential. Fully aware of their risk. Fully aware of their power over me. I remain a willing target for whatever spell was conjured to bring about their delivery. I remain ever aware of the power my own words can inflict onward as well.  I want the magic. I want the magic of words. I always will.

 

Indeed.

The Heart of the Matter

The Heart of the Matter is one of my most favorite songs. The lyric, beautifully crafted by songwriters Don Henley, JD Souther and Michael Campbell, touches upon a most acutely personal challenge many of us have to deal with at some point in our lives….forgiveness.

 

And the more I know, less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I’m learning again
I’ve been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think its about forgiveness
Forgiveness

 

 My daughter and I spent the day together yesterday as we often do on Saturdays. We went to a morning exercise class, ran errands and went out to lunch. Over the course of conversation we touched on a situation between one of her friends and the girl’s mother and I remarked that we had never really had a big fight that I can recall. She gave me an odd look and said, “Yes we have and I will never fight with you again”.

 

Again.

 

It turns out that we did have a fight. A big one. It was on a Monday in early July 2007,  a day that no one in the family likes to discuss. She told me that while she sat beside my bed in the ICU she swore to herself that no matter how upset she might become she would never fight with me again. She said she learned her lesson and still can’t forgive herself for her behavior that day.

 

I have no memory of this fight, none whatsoever, and I told her so. So much of that day is just wiped from my memory. I assured her that I had no interest in knowing what we fought about and that I can’t even remember that we had.  Knowing that the memory of the fight still causes her discomfort makes me sad. I want her to let go of that discomfort. For my sake just as much as hers.

 

The ability to forgive is unpredictable and irrational at times. What we may think of as being unforgivable can turn out to be quite the opposite. Something we never thought would bother us, when it occurs, may well turn out to be something we cannot get past no matter how we try.  And oh how we sometimes do try.

 

For me it isn’t the forgiveness that I can get hung up on, it’s the forgetting. Once I’ve been made to feel foolish, feel stupid or insignificant, I can get stuck.  I can approach the indiscretion, the conflict, the hurt with a rational mind and a heart filled with love but forgetting the incident is another matter entirely. I can push something so far out of my mind that I don’t think about it….but invariably something will trigger a memory and it will return. Forgetting is my challenge. It always has been.

 

That doesn’t mean I can’t or  I won’t. Some things are worth forgetting.  Some things just have to be forgotten in order to move forward. Sometimes the only peace we get is from a mind wiped clean by our own choice. Perhaps what may be down the road for us can’t be found unless we forget what happened along the way. Perhaps that’s why at this point it doesn’t  matter what my daughter and I fought about that day. Whatever it was has been left behind long ago and so shall it remain because I want to pay attention to what may be ahead.

 

It’s not just about forgiveness. It’s also the forgetting that counts.

 

Indeed

Seanny’s Mother Really Is Awesome

She is.

 I have known Seanny’s mom since she was slightly older than our sons are now. She was working part-time in my office while going to school. Our mothers are friends and I probably know more about her than she realizes. We lost touch over the years  but had re-connected when we found our sons were playing freshman football together and had become good friends.

 

She’s about ten years younger than I am and has had two unsuccessful marriages. Both of her children, high schoolers, are from her first marriage. She is a single mom by definition and had mostly raised her kids herself. She was working a second job for a while and just recently has been able to give it up.

 

Her enthusiasm for life is incredible. She’s an endearing circus act and you can’t help but love her. My youngest gets invited to an annual Mets game each year and he always returns with stories of their adventures that day complete with photos. She called me one day to see if I could do anything to improve her son’s chances of getting a job in the security department where I work. High school kids aren’t generally hired for these positions but she thought she’d give it a shot. Turns out I could do something and I made a call. She’s still trying to do something for me in return.

 

I count her on my list of women who I view as the best moms I know. She’s on that list for the things about her that have nothing to do with motherhood. You see…she’s a woman who is not defined by motherhood. She’s actively involved with her children’s interests but their interests are not her only ones. There’s so much more to her. She’s immersed in a life of her own separate from her role as mother and that is what makes her interesting. She brings that identity to her children’s lives and enriches them as a result.  She doesn’t exist for them but her separate existence is what has helped them grow into the great teenagers that they are. She leads by example. She shows them how to live a full life by living one of her own. She shows them that having been dealt a tough hand doesn’t limit. She’s shown them that she’s faced some tough things but they never have to worry about her because she can handle what comes her way. She’s shown them an example of a strong woman for a daughter to become and strong woman for a son to choose as a partner. 

 

She’s shown them that she’s their mother but that’s not all she is. She’s shown them that they are the most important part of her life but she’s also shown them the life she has separate from theirs. She’s shown them that they too will grow into strong and independent individuals who will go on to have great lives for themselves no matter what they face. She’s shown them that she is an awesome woman who has had children, pretty amazing ones at that.

 

She’s one of the best moms I know.

 

Indeed.

Seanny and the Awesome Mother

My youngest came in from school not long ago and said, “Seanny’s mom is awesome!!!!!!!!!”

 

Now my youngest is a happy kid. He’s enthusiastic but is not usually this effervescent especially in regard to somebody’s mom. I wanted to know why it was he was so completely taken with her awesomeness. So I asked him why he thought so. Apparently Seanny’s mom sprung Seanny from school during lunchtime by dropping in and taking him out of school for the day and off to buy a new baseball game for his PS3…. just because. Now the kicker for me is that my son looked me straight in the eye and said, “something you would NEVER do“. Twist the knife why don’t you sonny boy. Twist the knife.

 

I know Seanny’s mom and yes she is awesome. She’s awesome for a thousand other reasons besides the video game expedition. The level of enthusiasm in my son’s voice is what caused that twisting twinge that I felt inside.  I don’t need anyone to tell me what kind of a mother I am, but I would have liked to hear my own son say …”not as awesome as you”. I guess my youngest has not yet reached that point in his maturity where he looks at me and sees the entire picture. It’s not that he’s unappreciative or spoiled. It’s just that he still sees what I won’t do or don’t do rather than all I have done. His vision is still a tad obscured in this regard.

 

My two older children see that entire picture and have spoken quite frankly where my maternal skills are concerned. Any affirmation I would have ever needed has come from them both in word and deed. If I ever have my doubts I only have to look to them to see evidence of the many things I’ve done right. While I have made more than my share of maternal mistakes, there is an awful lot that I got right. The awesome is right there for me to see.

 

As far as Seanny’ and his awesome mom are concerned, I’m fairly certain Seanny has said the same of me. A few months ago I made a call and he got the part time job he had been certain was beyond his reach but very much needed. Then there was the little matter of  a boy and his mother on senior night and another mother who made sure that the boy’s absent father’s actions did not embarrass his mother that night. My son knows nothing of either event and that’s how it will remain. That’s fine because Seanny doesn’t need to tell my son that his mother is awesome. He’ll figure it out for himself someday.

 

Indeed.

By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet…..

A few weeks ago my granddaughter had been over for a visit. We were in my bedroom and she was seated atop my bed, sketching and writing on a tablet. I had been putting some things into my dresser drawers and we were talking. Out of the blue she rips a piece of paper from her tablet and hands it to me. She said, “Nonni, I wrote your name!”

 

She had indeed. She had written what was her phonetic interpretation of my name. She’s only ever called me  “Nonni” and I can’t say she would have heard my name spoken very often elsewhere. Of course she would know what it is but in the context of our conversations and those within the family, I’m usually known either  as “Mom”  or “Nonni”. Looking at this piece of paper with my misspelled name written in the hand of a precious seven year old, I thought about how I am perceived by my children. I thought about how I want to be perceived by my granddaughter.

 

As parents, we spend a lot of time thinking about the example we set for our children. Actions speak more loudly than words so we are careful about what our actions say to them, or rather we should be. In my role as parent I have always tried to strike a balance between setting the bar for expectations and allowing room for human nature to be what it is. I wanted to be an example of what to aspire but not set an unattainable goal.

 

What I wanted them to see was a strong, quietly confident and independant woman. Trustworthy, accomplished and decisive. Content in myself as a person. Committed to the family, having complete faith in them as individuals and possessing unwavering and limitless love for them.

 

That is not to say I want them to see perfection. I’m far from perfect and they know it. I just never want my children to see my weaknesses,  Weakness that is not to be confused with my vulnerability or the soft places that lie within me. While such things are not as prominently displayed as my strengths, they are nevertheless equally important for them to be able to see. And they do.

 

What I don’t want for them to see is failure, my failures. Shortcomings I have not conquered. Shortcomings that remain within my life’s struggle. As they grow older they will inevitably figure them out for themselves but hopefully having also drawn whatever conclusion they may based upon the entire picture and not my singular place in it. I want the roots I have given them to be strong and true and suitable to support them  as they grow into the adults they have and will become.

 

So it is with a measure of  amusement that I ponder how it is my granddaughter will perceive me (as well as how any other of the children of my children to come will).  It is completely within my control as to what I let her see and how much of me she will know. Grandparents are in a unique position and one that is to be arrived at with great care. We want to advise and not interfere. we want to support and not supplant. We want to love unconditionally but with the full understanding that we will always be a close third at best in the order of things. As it should be.

 

I think what I want is for her to simply see what my children see, the strength and the commitment. A standard for her to understand is worthy of upholding. But I also want her to see something else, something that is part role model and part safe haven. A link in the chain that is our family and a tie that binds her to unconditional love with a good dose of expectation.  A tie that binds her to my heart as she goes forward in finding her way. Always knowing that when she faces what she may struggle to conquer, she need only look back from where she came to find her way. Look back to me.

 

And however she may spell my name is not important as long as she knows that when she calls it, I will be here. Always.

 

Indeed.

 

Hey Rush … Who You Callin’ a Slut?

It seemed every time I turned around in the last two weeks I was faced with a news report on woman’s sexuality and it wasn’t a positive.

 

 We had GOP presidential hopeful Rick Santorum trying to knock us back to the 1950′s with his negative attitudes about women’s sexuality outside of a traditional marriage. Then there was the instruction Pope Benedict gave to US Bishops at The Vatican this week ordering them to push chastity to women and denounce premarital sex. The most offensive was Rush Limbaugh’s reference to Georgetown Law student Sandra Fluke as a slut (and later he called her a prostitute) for the simple fact that she testified before congress in regard to the issue of Catholic institutions disallowing contraceptive coverage under their health benefit plans. 

 

 For the life of me I’ll never understand why it is these men think that they have the right to an opinion much less to dictate a woman’s choices in regard to her sexuality. Even more confounding is a man who dares to refer to a woman, on a national radio show, using a derisive and derogatory term relative to her sexuality. Somebody please stick a fork in this gasbag.

 

But I digress.

 

My thinking is pretty simple here. My advice to these men is this: you worry about what you do with what’s in your pants and I’ll worry about what I do with what’s in mine.

 

Sometimes I’m amazed at the level of comfort and intensity and of the interest in what I want to do with what’s in mine. I was raised in a strict Catholic environment both at home and at school. Growing up, the women in my life were intent on making sure that I “saved myself for marriage” (I didn’t). They demanded I be a chaste young lady and not be “that kind of girl”. They warned of the dangers of a defiled reputation and the perils of not being a “good girl”. They made sex out to be something bad and sexual feelings to be something shameful.

 

All I remember about those precious years, when a young women begins to discover her maturity, is that those feelings that were blossoming inside of me were bad and I was shameful for having them. Of course now I know it was unnatural to deny sexuality and sexual feelings yet sadly I, and most of the girls I grew up with, was made to do just that. I am not suggesting that young women not be given a moral compass with which to base such decisions upon. Faith and good values best serve as the basis to decision making and not a fear of accepting feelings that are natural to women and if I may say so … wonderfully fulfilling.

 

In my most humble opinion, a woman, of appropriate age and maturity, is never to be derided, debased or denounced for what comes naturally to her. For what comes naturally to her in the very same way it comes naturally to a man.  A thirty year old law student who seeks contraception is not a slut. Neither is a twenty year old cashier at Target, or a forty year old divorced physician, or a twenty seven year old 1st grade teacher, or a twenty three year old stay at home mom,  or a thirty five year old unmarried nurse, or a seventeen year old high school student who is just beginning to explore her sexuality. FYI Rush…if you call one of us a slut… then you call all of us a slut. Myself included.

 

There will always be narrow minded, hate-filled gasbags like Rush Limbaugh on the airwaves. That’s fine. It makes for good debate at times. But when said gasbags step over the line to defamation and resort to using slurs directed toward women to make their point, it’s time to pull the plug on them and shut him and others like him down.

 

 Indeed. 

 

 

You Poor Thing

You poor thing.

 

That’s what someone recently replied after I had shared a small piece of something that I have been dealing with personally. You poor thing.

 

Naturally I was taken aback. It was somewhat of a struggle for me to remain quiet and not give life to the thoughts that immediately began to roil about in my head. I am probably the least of the poor things you would ever come across in this life. An understatement if there ever was.

 

My mother had very definite ideas about what things impressionable young ladies should see and hear. Her agenda in raising me was directed toward shaping me into a serious person. She did not glorify screen actresses. She downplayed beauty as an asset citing common sense as a more desirable attribute. She didn’t exactly tell me how to think but she made it perfectly clear as to how I shouldn’t.

 

I suppose as a result, growing up, I didn’t like the weak women I saw depicted in film or on TV.  I was attracted to heroines.  I liked the women who figuratively “kick ass”. Once I saw Wrangler Jane on the TV series, F Troop I immediately fell in love. A woman who could shoot a rifle, ride a horse and look good? My kind of woman!  I also wanted to be Lt. Uhura on the TV series Star Trek. It didn’t matter that Captain James T. Kirk went around kissing every other female on the show… Uhura was on the bridge and helped run the Enterprise!  She didn’t need to kiss the captain to get there either.

 

It’s not that I was a tomboy but I never much cared for super feminine women who needed rescuing…. by a man. I became annoyed observing women on TV and film who always seemed to fall down helplessly, generally while getting chased by an attacker, appearing as if suddenly they forgot how to stay upright. Wide-eyed and blinking, chest heaving and ready to meet peril, waiting for a man to come along and save the day. They got on my nerves.  Of course there are the ones who had to drape themselves over a man while they dissolved into tears, helpless and needy, fearfully expecting salvation. Pathetic. The worst of the lot, to me, were those hapless fools seemingly looking for a rescue, basically tripping over any man in the vicinity who might provide one. Horrid stereotypes, I know, but they were common in the late 1960s. Sadly, some still remain.

 

It’s not that I don’t like men or like to be assisted or helped out by a man when help is needed. I rather enjoy men. I adore chivalry and appreciate masculine gestures of respect and the kindnesses a man can extend to a woman. I just need them to be sincere gestures born from humanity and not superiority. There needs to be a certain symmetry in the gesture without the slightest suggestion of an expectation other than my thanks.

 

Nothing more, nothing less.

Indeed