The great thing about writing on men and women, and how they interact, is that these two kinds of people are everywhere.
This morning, as I manned my post at the Circle of Imperfects, another woman got out of a cab. This one was bottle-blonde, in a black mini-skirt, and jacket that accentuated her yoga-fied figure. Her five-foot two-inch frame was girded by five-inch heels and her make-up added as much to her stature. She was about 33-years old and petite; a very well put together careerist. She looked like Kelly Ripa circa 2000.
In her left hand was a coffee, and in her right was her purse–shadows of things to come, when age has washed the inside of her cup. She rounded the back of the cab to open the trunk. Missing that third hand*, she swiveled her head back and forth, searching for a suitable perch for her items, but none was found. She crouched down and set the Stabucks cup on the ground; still clutching her fashionably small purse in her right. Standing up, she reached for the Ford symbol, and tugged. Twice. Satisfied that it was firmly attached, but not the handle to the trunk, she looked around until she found the latch. Her success was brief, as the hatch sprang up, and nearly pulled her off the ground.
Pausing in her labors, she straightened her jacket, and then flipped her hair behind her shoulders–a vain effort because her hair was barely shoulder-length, and her jacket was perfectly fit. She reached into the trunk for her roller-board. Up came the jacket, and down went the hair.
She pulled on the case, but it was not convinced of her intent. Resolved, she lunged into the trunk, her right leg in the air, her purse tucked into an armpit that must be sweating, and both hands on the suitcase handle. She jerked, and the case moved halfway out. She squared her stripper-shod feet and reverse-deadlifted the case onto its wheels. Jacket is jerked back in place, and hair is aligned. Now she can move on into the building.
She bends over to pick up her coffee, and there goes the hair and jacket. Standing back up, hair in her face, she transfered the coffee to the sweaty-pitted arm clutching the purse, and used her left to pull up the handle on her roller-board. It leans it over, and she takes her first step…which goes uncompleted because the case has again lost faith in her capabilities.
The other door opens and a grey-suited man steps out. He’s about ten years older, five-foot ten, and seems to be in decent shape. It’s hard to tell in his well-cut suit. That’s the point of them. He sees Kelly Ripa struggling with the case, and transferring his day-planner to his left he smirks, grabs the handle, and wheels it behind him.
I was with him until he grabbed that case without her asking. His execution was good, but his routine lacked difficulty. I give it a seven.
Finished with my smoke, I walked back to work. As I was walking, I remembered a famous Internet meme that touches on what I just saw:
It struck me that the picture is a sort of rorschach for determining what sort of man one is, by Manosphere/Game standards.
Feminazi: That stupid woman should realize the man is making her carry her own destruction. He’s going to kill her; probably by raping her to death with a stick.
Typical Feminist/Church-goer: Why is that man doing nothing? He’s bigger, he’s stronger, and he has to be dirty, because all men are. He ought to be the one carrying the wood. Doesn’t he know how hard a woman’s life is without him oppressing her with carrying the firewood? I bet he likes beer. Men are pigs!
Player: What a beast. No wonder he makes her carry the firewood. If he doesn’t keep her busy, she may try to mate with him, or catch her breath, and start nagging. Good on him for keeping himself available in case he meets some trim coming the other way. Otherwise, he needs to up his Game if he wants younger/hotter/tighter; as every man does. Smoking can play to the right sort, but Millennials are out on it. He’s got a head start with dark hair, but the llama-wool coat is so 90s.
MRA: Why is there a woman there? Any man with sense knows she is going to use that firewood to barricade the door, and burn his house down with him inside…while he’s sleeping…or knocked-out after hitting him over the head with one…or to cook dinner for his “son” by another man…that no-good cuckolding abusive arsonist bitch. Firewood is the problem, and until we outlaw it no man is safe.
Patriarch: Where in Hell is his weapon? Collecting firewood is women’s work, so if he’s there, it must be either because its an unsafe area and he’s there to protect her, or she’s a lazy broad who has to be minded. Regardless, she’s got it under control. If there is trouble, better that he not be loaded down and unable to respond. He’s walking in front so there are no surprises ahead, and she doesn’t have to think about which direction to go; except his.
*Calling all evolutionary psychologists: When did that other hand disappear? You know, the one we keep expecting to grab the third object. It has to be significant. What does it mean?