//EDIT: 7/31/2013 A couple days ago the subject of the article posted in the comments here with a rebuttal. While said rebuttal entirely misses the point of the post, it does suggest that some of the facts behind the article may have been mis-reported. See comments and Caveat Lector.
Okay. Heads up.
I’m not gonna pull any stops on this one, so those of you with meek and tender dispositions, you really ought to go look at lolcats or something. If you belong to that bizarro religion which holds that there are “forbidden words” which instantly reduce a fully-functional adult human being to a quivering, emotionally-traumatized train wreck, go look at LOTS of lolcats (also, get a life).
The Cute, it Burns, here.
Now, for the rest of you….
The more I think about this, I gotta tell you, the more I’m glad I married somebody from a country that’s completely batshit crazy about other things, but not neck-deep in the “female entitlement” virus.
So let’s get this straight:
- Man proposes.
- Woman says no.
- They break up, man finds true love, woman writes self-help book.
It was actually:
- Man proposes.
- Woman dismisses the proposal as insufficiently performative and of poor aesthetic quality.
- Man stays with her.
- Woman founds business to teach men how to propose better.
My wife proposed to me. I didn’t know it at the time, because my Hungarian was improving, but I didn’t realize that variations on “can I wash your socks” are actually a deeply romantic (and thoroughly realistic) way of saying “I would enjoy forming a decades-long relationship with you involving vast amounts of sex and options on the creation of small squealing humanoids.” I proposed to her, mere moments later. It wasn’t elaborate. It was a quiet, in the dark, whispered “will you marry me?” No preamble, no performance, no stupid expectation that a proposal is something that ought to require a degree in theatre arts. So in the space of five minutes flat, each of us proposed to the other, and not only did it not involve careful preparation, we couldn’t even see each other.
Check this out (emphasis mine):
Despite the fact that her boyfriend Ryan Galeozzi got the proposal so wrong the couple are still together. Mr Galeozzi, her boyfriend of four years, is planning a second attempt.
Ryan, here’s a word of advice:
RUN!! RUN LIKE HELL, YOU STUPID GIT!!
Let’s get something straight. In fact, let’s color-code this for degree of reasonableness.
You propose to a girl, she says yes, you live happily ever after. Great.
You propose to a girl, and she says no, it’s over. Your relationship has just been chopped at the neck, and you should be seeing a great big sign that says “this woman may enjoy fucking you, but she has absolutely no long-term interest in you, and the relationship, such as it is, will never get any better than it did five minutes before you opened your mouth.” Other alternatives include “Yes, I actually would like to marry you, but we both know that you are not husband material.”
You propose to a girl, and she freaks out, and then comes back and says “yes,” okay, that can happen. USUALLY it’s a big-old warning sign, but it can happen and work.
You propose to a girl and she turns you down because the proposal lacked sufficient drama and gravitas to be deserving of her approval. Sir, your girlfriend is not “wife material,” but is, rather a solipsistic cunt.(fn)
“Will you marry me?”
“Will you wash my socks?”
Let’s start off with something basic. It’s been said elsewhere, most notably (and often) by the ever-helpful Susan Walsh at her site Hooking Up Smart: Women are the gatekeepers of sex. Men are the gatekeepers of commitment.
What this woman is doing is trying to be both, and the entire situation reeks of emotional abuse, to boot, as she slowly tolerates him setting himself up for a “second performance.” Which, I suppose, is fine if your ideal choice in husband material is “spineless, easy-to-manipulate dweeb.”
If this dipshit will put the guy on hold for that long because his proposal was basic, straightforward, and sincere, how do you think she’ll handle the wedding?
“Well, you were pretty good during the walking-down-the-aisle part, but you yawned once during the sermon, and haven’t really perfected the whole ‘gazing adorably at me while a minister speaks to you’ bit, so… no, I don’t. You can try again in a couple of years.”
Here’s a hint: “getting married” isn’t the same thing as “being a husband or a wife.” The first is an event. The second is (hopefully) the rest of your fucking life. (And since this is marriage, yes, we all hope that there’s a lot of fucking involved. The species, perpetuate it. Getting regularly laid is part of being a healthy and well-adjusted human being. Even without the munchkins, it makes your marriage stronger anyway. Oxytocin is real).
So let’s be pretty clear. Sam Sheppard (that’s the gal in question, for those of you who didn’t RTFA) is retarded. Not in the accidental, “we bend over backwards to be extra-kind-and-gentle because that kid can’t help it” sort of way, but in the sense of “this person has chosen to become one of the people who spread idiocy and misery far and wide.” In the immortal words of the Reverend Bill Hicks, “these are demons, set loose upon the earth to lower the standards.” By holding her approval over this guy’s head while simultaneously demonstrating that she’s got not the slightest bit of respect for him, what do her actions say about any man who gets into a decades-long relationship with her? What is this guy’s life going to be like?
What man in his right mind would take a class from this woman for any other purpose than sardonic amusement?
I take care of my wife. That’s part of being a husband. (Helpful hint, it’s the biggest part). I bend over backwards to keep my wife from bending over backwards, pre-compromising, or any other thing that’s not getting what she wants. That includes compromises. Compromises in a marriage are shit. A compromise means neither of you got what you wanted/needed. Fuck that. Think outside the box, and figure out what you’d need in order for both of you to fucking win. People whose relationships are going to last intuitively understand that, and what they call “compromise” isn’t “each kid gets half a cookie.”
My wife takes care of me. She loves the fact that I love being brought a cup of coffee. Yes, Virginia, you heard that right. My wife makes and brings me coffee without irony. And guess what? She’s right to! I kill the bugs! And “wifing” involves taking care of your husband every bit as much as “husbanding” is, well, husbanding. Mister Dictionary’s already got that one covered. And men need taking care of. Chances are, no matter how strong, wise, effective, pick his “adjectives that complement her weaker points and help both of you to live better” strengths, the price of having 40% extra skeletomuscular mass is that he’s almost certain to croak and leave you lonely for a decade before you die yourself. Brutal truth, but there it is. Your man is very likely to have less time on this earth than you will, if only because of biology. Now add a little socioeconomical trivia: who works in the vast majority of the dangerous occupations where you can be killed dead as a doornail just because of a random-ass mechanical failure?
Now, does that mean that the woman should have to come along and wipe the guy’s ass all the time? Fuck no. That’s the sign of a guy who’s being a shit husband. But who’s gotta be Johnny-on-the-spot with the drugs and chicken soup when your spouse gets sick? Yeah, pretty basic there, isn’t it? The woman wants the man to be a kick-ass husband. The man wants the woman to be a kick-ass wife (speaking heteronormatively here, but the principle holds true, just change the pronouns). Being a kick-ass spouse means dedicating your life, for however many decades that happens to be, to another person, and giving every bit of yourself to that person.
What’s the chance that a woman who’ll string a guy along based on the aesthetic qualities of his marriage proposal is going to dedicate herself to being a kick-ass wife?
Run, dude, run.
(fn)Yes, I used an intentionally-offensive word. You were warned. I’m perfectly equal-opportunity where disdain for moral reprobates of the male sex are concerned, too; witness here. We reserve these words from polite usage because, as the Cistercian monk in combat boots taught me, the purpose of profanity is to shock, and to express that a situation has sufficient gravity to justify the deployment of said shock. This is why “fucking” and “damned” are not profanity in the Marine Corps…. but “I can’t do it” is.