Conspiracy Fiction suggests that the world turns at the whim of the Illuminati, the Freemasons, or some other secret society.
They know this. And we know this. And they know that we know this, but for the sake of future generations we refrain from speaking openly of this ancient mystery of matrimony. Women hold the power. It may be a man’s world, but the masculine globe spins on an axis of estrogen.
We gather for the bachelor party. “Congratulations dude, you convinced her to take your last name,” we say and raise a toast, and chuckle behind our steins because in his hormonal high the schmuck has been blinded to the fact that she has plans to take more than he bargained for.
She’ll take his autonomy, and he’ll like it. She’ll hijack his whole life and he’ll beg her for more, knowing that she is doing him a favor.
It’s no accident. She’s been educated and initiated. In the school of sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice she is always at the head of the class. We boys, on the other hand, sit in the corner wearing a dunce cap, quite pleased with the antics that put us there, obliviously picking boogers. And so we grow into men and women, some of us assuming that the world is ours by right, and the rest pulling puppet strings.
You want to talk about secret societies? They have their own language, made up of mostly arched eyebrows, tsk’s, and folded arms. (We men have no idea what these things mean, other than “stop, drop, and roll”). They have their own rites. (Try barging in on a birthing story conference.) They have their own temples. (Last time I invited a guy to go to the washroom with me it didn’t turn out so well). They have their own greetings. (When women hug one another, it lasts just nanoseconds longer than the male equivalent, but for us it’s the difference between “hey, dude” and “punch-you-in-the-face-get-off-me”).
Bless their hearts, our women try to help us save face by letting us open jam jars, but every once in awhile the truth comes out: while we men may wear the proverbial pants, the fairer sex controls the zipper, and pretty much everything else we consider important. (And they could open the jar with a pipe wrench if they really wanted to.)
It happened to me yesterday.
It was one of those conversations you have after a couple weeks of being too busy to talk. We were kicking the tires on some financial choices when, no word of a lie, she looked me straight in the eye and said with all seriousness, “I’m proud of you honey, for seeing things my way.” I looked over at her quizzically as I was rinsing the dishes and saw the shocked looked on her face. She had opened Pandora’s box. The game was up. I knew that after fifteen years, my suspicions had been just been confirmed.
She tried to backpedal, “What I meant to say was…” Stammer, confusion, slight grin, blush.
“It’s hard,” I said, “to think of another way to say it, isn’t it?”
We probably won’t speak of it again, partly because I like breathing, but mostly because…
…“He who finds a wife finds a good thing,
and obtains favor from the Lord.”
Proverbs 18:22 (NKJV)
- Talmadge on Who Are You, Really?
- Will on Good Grief
- Mary Sayler on Good Grief
- William R on Good Grief
- Jake Enns on Jesus, Potpourri, and Power
- Bill on Lion Cages and Little Keys
- Mike on Men Retreating
- Bill on Sanctuary – The Song
- Bill on The Gay Question and Religious Liberty
- Dan Carlaw on Sanctuary – The Song
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