I Don't Mean to Brag... But it Isn't Easy Being a Guy

I was at a party last Friday night. Nothing special, more of a gathering, really. All in all it was not entirely unpleasant. But there was this guy, an acquaintance of ours. A relative of a friend. All night long he unabashedly bragged about how much money he has or this or that status symbol he has acheived. But it wasn't until the end of the evening, mere moments before our departure, that the subject turned to marriage. And then he dropped the bomb: "I don't mean to brag, but..."

Have you ever heard those words precede anything OTHER than grand bragging? My first thought was "This is going to be a doozy!", followed by trying to quickly develop the mental powers necessary to compel my lovely wife to head for the door. By this point, he had already boasted of so many wordly possessions, powerful connections, and technological goodies that I could scarcely imagine what was left. WIth the current topic of marriage afloat, I feared what a poor light he might cast on my humble efforts of husbanding in contrast to his vainglorious marvels of husbandom. But I had a scant second to ponder before he completed his sentence,
"...my wife hasn't pumped her own gas since we got married."

Relief washed over me. Something so minor as pumping gas for his wife (a career woman turned stay at home mom) hardly registered on the brag-o-meter. I mean, I try to fill the tank for her if I'm out in the minivan and the tank is low, but NEVER pumping her own gas? I never even tried to shoot for such a mark. My lovely wife is more than capable of operating the pump. I nudged her toward the door, visions of getting home to my comfortable bed danced through my brain. Then my lovely wife chimed in.

"How do I sign up for that plan?" my lovely wife asked, just a little too awed by his statement.

And there, as they say, is the rub. If I treat her like the delicate flower that she is, I'm failing to respect the power of a woman, equal to a man in every regard. But if I treat her as an equal in every regard, I'm neglecting the little girl inside her who dreamed of being a princess waiting for her prince to rescue her. But if popular culture has taught us anything in recent years, it is that the princess is quite capable of rescuing herself. No prince needed.

I pondered this the rest of the evening. The whole drive home I was tormented by this dichotomy of the princess and the queen bee. All the while I drove the sitter home (my job, as the man, because the woman should not have to be out driving alone at night), I wondered. Then, and this is a true story with the exception of the parts that I made up, the low fuel light came on. There was plenty of gas to get me home, but my lovely wife would have to stop on the way to wherever it was she was going the next morning. It was ten minutes out of my way & I really wanted to go to bed. It was such a small thing, to my thinking. But clearly such a big thing to her. So I decided.

And I don't mean to brag, but... my wife hasn't had to pump her own gas since sometime before 10pm last Friday night.