Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Mistaken Women's Lib

I cannot be the only one...who sometimes realizes that as independent, as self assured, and as confident of a woman that I think I am, there are times that I am surprised by my need to be acknowledged for doing a job usually considered masculine.  How could a woman who wants to be treated as an equal in the world, and more importantly in my marriage, feel the need to receive the proverbial pat on the head by a man for a job well done...this is a mystery.

This anti-women's liberation tale begins on the way to Sonny Boy's school, after gathering the lunch box, backpack, and debating over the necessity of wearing a jacket in place of his super hero cape to school, we finally made it into the car.  As we are pulling out of the garage, I was mentally checking off my "are we really ready to leave check list", when I noticed a dingy little dash light refusing to turn off.  This orange light, with it's exclamation point within parenthesis, immediately caused a cord of anxiety within me (not to mention irritation). I started obsessing over what this light could mean, how was I going to fix it, and where was the time to fix it going to come from? After safely dropping Sonny Boy off at school I did something I truly despise, something that I generally avoid as though it were a kid with a runny nose, I opened up the car's owners manual.

I spent ten long seconds looking for the dash warning light section (the manual was surprisingly well organized) and deciphered the problem, the tires needed air.  My first thought was to simply not drive the car until the Hubby returned from work, at which time he could take the car to put air in the tires, but I really wanted to go out and grab a few things, meaning I was going to have to handle this all own my own.  I drove to the nearest gas station, plopped four quarters into the slot of the air compressor, and got to filling the tires with air and checking the pressure to make sure I didn't over inflate (the only issue I had was the realization that women's low waisted skinny jeans are not conducive to any kind of car trouble situations).

After a job well done, I felt a strong need to call and let a few of the men in my life know that I had a car related problem, researched the problem, and (wait for it) solved the problem all on my own, with no help whatsoever, and did it right the first time. Needless to say, I understand who I really am a little better after that morning, and I am alright with it. Who doesn't want to be recognized when they have stepped out of their comfort zone and managed to solve a problem (even if the recognition sort-of sets back the women's liberation movement by about twenty years)?

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