While it would seem that just about every woman I meet, but especially around my age, knows everything about everything, the pleasure of being a fool is underrated.
While the young attractive woman, newly in love may be foolishly optimistic, there is an argument for euthanasia when the foolishness wears off. Perhaps senile dementia can help?
Wholly putting responsibility into the hands of a beloved man while swearing obedience is one of those “foolish” feminine things now out of fashion. Women who resist fashion are either fools or eccentrics, with the latter implying some sort of financial means. I suppose that I’m a little of both.
However, being an eccentric ought not to mean, in my view, license to demand positive affirmation from others. However, if positive affirmation is what amounts to much of today’s courting behavior from men, then my revulsion for it just tars me as weird and damaged.
I have to thank Edwin Oslan, a commenter to my recent piece on my lack of “femaleness” for helping me to clarify my feelings on the subject.
For me, the most romantic pet names and adjectives to describe me are considered by the Feminist hive mind to be demeaning. Only a fool would melt romantically in response to such patronizing endearments. Forgive me for being coy on the specifics except the most benign, that is, “kitchen slut,” an inadvertent reference to the etymology of the term, “slut,” that is a servant woman confined to the kitchen.
So much of catfighting is about class. Being forbidden from entry to the kitchen is an honor, for some. For me, it is a dubious one, although, of course, I enjoy being taken out to dinner as much as the next girl. As a way of life, only relying on others for kitchen duty would mean a loss of agency and pride for me.
I remember how I once asked Axel if he wanted to help me with the dishes after a particularly elaborate meal that I had prepared, and received a stern rebuke. I deserved it. While Axel used his considerable skills to do far more dirty and dangerous work to include the handling of toxic chemicals, crawling in crawl spaces, and even the filthy end of plumbing, at home he was King. I might be a little tired after an involved recipe but he knew as well as I did that I would perk up for sex or BDSM. I therefore learned to put myself in the proper mindset for all such drudgery as it would serve to create an environment that would inspire him romantically. A sink full of dirty dishes would not.
It was particularly difficult for me however to prepare for him a meal, and watch as he cleaned up and dressed to go out, with another woman afterwards. Most modern women would call me a fool for agreeing to that dynamic. However, I always knew that whenever he approached me it was not merely out of physical need but that he wanted me to be the one to satisfy him. For that reason not once was sex between us dull or “routine”. It was always a main event.
I was responsible for the clean up afterwards there as well.
Occasionally, Axel would check up on me, to make sure that I was happy and otherwise satisfied with our relationship. Axel wasn’t in the least complacent about our relationship which in turn helped me to feel treasured by him. He also expressed his appreciation for all that I did for him, and I for all that he did for me. Personally, I find it foolish for women to expect labor and gifts from men as some sort of tribute and doubt that women are actually happy with that arrangement for its own sake, but are rather merely imitating what they see on television and advertising.
Men who are happy with that state of affairs are also fools. However, in my view, a relationship only needs one fool and I’m happy to be it.