I was recently in a fender bender that wasn’t my fault. The other car backed into me. It occurred during a date in which I was asked out to dinner but my date insisted that I do the driving. I didn’t object although this is not the sort of dynamic that tends to put me into a playful mood. If I am placed in the driver’s seat—whether literally or figuratively—I’m all business.
It is a metaphor for the population reductive nature of Feminism.
The distance to drive for this date was not great and there was no incident on the way to the restaurant. Besides, we were going out for steak, and I love steak, and so I was willing to see how things went even with an inauspicious start.
The accident occurred in the restaurant parking lot and I obtained the other driver’s apology and insurance information. Since then, I have had my car inspected such as to learn just how much repairing this unsightly gash is going to cost somebody. I have therefore already paid two hours of my time, gas, and even a bridge toll in order to find this out for an accident that I didn’t cause. I had pulled alongside the other car which had been parked, but then the driver of that car decided to suddenly back out at an angle into the adjoining space, where I was, rather than pulling straight back, or looking first.
I suppose I laughed a little inside to see that it was an Asian man and his American-of-European-extraction wife, of about my age. I had calculated that demographic math myself, back when I married The Han. There were not enough American men to go around, even when branching out to minorities, for women my age, thanks to The Vietnam War among other pressures adversely affecting the marriageable population of men. Dipping into the one-child-policy China seemed like a no-brainer, particularly given the high IQ of Chinese American immigrants.
Even with my exceedingly poor experiences, I would not eliminate the possibility of such a pairing today. In any case, such would be a fair improvement over selecting from the pool of White men who insist that White women who have not reproduced are damaged goods by default, even while single mothers are also damaged goods by default. If you guys don’t like women my age whether childbearing or childless, perhaps your mothers are to blame? I’m not her, but thanks for saving me the aggravation by making your bias clear.
The fender bender wasn’t particularly noteworthy otherwise even though as my date and I entered the restaurant, I noticed that my heart was pounding heavily. When the maitre d’ showed us to a table in the center of the restaurant crowded by other diners I objected. A booth not only feels safer and more comfortable but is more conducive to conversation.
My date, perhaps out of nervousness, then proceeded to subject me to a series of jokes in the restaurant, which I interpret as sort of a flirtatious defensiveness. Although he knew that I was not a Feminist he thought it would be funny to pretend to stick me with the check, because that’s a joke he likes to play on Feminists. It was only a momentary prank.
However, the combined shock of the fender bender plus being made the butt of several jokes for the benefit of a stranger, the waitress, caused in me an indigestion such that the delicious steak resulted in two days of intestinal upset, a vulnerability that I picked up as a result of my one-and-only-marriage from Hell to aforementioned Han.
I hadn’t had a date since Valentine’s Day wherein my (different) date had made a strangely hostile remark to the waiter, in the busy upscale restaurant, on one of the busier nights of the year. I did not find the remark amusing and was embarrassed for it, and so neither my date nor I got lucky for Valentine’s Day.
What is the point of taking a gal out to dinner if it is only to embarrass her at the least or induce emotional reactions incompatible with digestion or sex?
I had already cooked a fine meal for the latter gentleman, as a reward for his making the drive across the state the day before, stocked my place with groceries and beverages, and have thereby not made any sort of profit from that date. There was also the matter of laundry as it turns out I had made up the guest bed for him, and it was a fortunate thing that I had done so.
I understand that lots of men may be hurting and I am sorry that they are hurting however I do not believe that this obligates me to either cater to them sexually or be the butt of their jokes, in addition to my willingness to provide room, board, and chauffeuring services.
For what it’s worth, both of these men gushed over my attractiveness, which, is a dubious compliment if it inspires such rude behavior.
Some time back, through this blog, a man offered to come visit me, but he did not give me enough notice, and I had a scheduling conflict, and so I was unable to make the meeting. Since then, I’ve been given various semi-public warnings of his displeasure, which, of course, makes me feel lucky that I had had a scheduling conflict (even though that other event was cancelled after all, but it wasn’t my doing). I do not need to be made the frustration punching bag of an intemperate man apparently in need of male admiration and approval for the dubious achievement of engaging me, failing to provide adequate notice before meeting me, and then compounding that error by making false assumptions about me in a semi-public manner.
Surely this man could not be at a loss for more masochistic female attention than what I could have summoned? I suspect that his real prize however was to be the admiration of other men for overcoming my defenses. Gay?
Mr. Steak has told me that he has cancer and is dying and so surely that would entitle him to a kiss and hug from me at least? Interesting approach. My guts continue to rebel at the notion. I’m sorry he’s dying. We’re all dying. He’s twenty years older than I am. Demographically he is in the driver’s seat as the women well outnumber the men therein. However, for some reason, he chose me as someone with whom to spend his diminishing returns. Can I go on like I’m going on for twenty more years? No. Something has got to give.
Meanwhile, my own overtures toward men of my own interest have been similarly ham-handed and probably justifiably rebuffed.
Or maybe they are simply dealing with their own baggage which has nothing to do with me.
I am only a bargain for the sort of man willing to deal with the various psychological phenomena remaining as souvenirs of malevolent hypnosis and PTSD which have effectively enslaved me for many years. Axel was able to actually beat most of it back and he was happy with me besides. Under him we both saw improvement in my condition. However, Axel easily could have been the last of his kind, that is, a benevolent Svengali to me, the otherwise rudderless vessel, with the exception being my dedication to this blog.
Another man who I had met and was prepared to meet again started to get weird with me through emails, that is, pretending to have power over me that he had not yet demonstrated that he was able to summon in person. I guess this was sort of a seduction tactic on his part which backfired. I think that it was also sort of a method of motivating his own interest. The unfortunate effect of long distance relationships is that I don’t accept electronic communication as a substitute for actually meeting, face-to-face, and am therefore uncomfortable with it already. It wasn’t really his fault for hitting the wrong note, that is magnifying the pressure, however a wrong note hit that early for me destroys my own motivation.
How was I to drive the considerable distance to meet him under that level of emotional pressure?
I do not know how to go about shopping for a body shop to repair my fender bender. It has been over twenty years since I even had to deal with such a situation which also was not my fault. I hope for a handsome and engaging body shop employee, who, like Axel, insists on doing the driving, has no present urge to reproduce children who would not have any hope in their own futures, and possesses an attention span.