Well, sort of.
But only when there’s a mouse in the house.
She can move with lightning speed and precision at the twitching of a whisker. Up on the table she goes where she waits for someone – anyone – to rescue her.
How well I remember waking up to her screaming when I was five years old. You would have thought someone was stabbing her to death, but no. She only wanted me to get out of bed and go outside to get one of the guys working on our house to come inside and kill the mouse -me, the five year old, while she, the adult, danced on the table.
Where am I going with this?
Well, there are three different kinds of women:
1. Those who climb the table and wait for help
2. Those who calmly tell the guy of the house to remove the icky little rodent
3. Those who kill the the rascal themselves and throw him out the back door
So which one are you, girls?
You can get a lot of insight about yourself just from how you handle the appearance of a tiny mouse. It speaks loads about your level of independence, don’t you think?
I’m a middle of the road kind of girl myself. I know I could kill it if I wanted to, but I choose not to. I like to make use of that man I have around the house. And, thankfully, he likes to be used (mostly in good ways).
I don’t need a man to take care of me, but I want one to. Big difference.
You will also never hear me say, “Will you pump my gas?” or “Can you change this light bulb?”
Because my husband already does all those things, plus much more.
Somewhere he got the crazy idea that I am not capable of chopping a vegetable or removing hot items from the oven. (Even though I manage to somehow do these things when he’s not here.)
I am also not allowed to cut the grass when he’s not home, use most power tools or any saws (even when he is at home), or do anything he views as unsafe without him.
Being the middle of the road girl that I am, how do you think that makes me feel?
Someone cares enough to devote their life to protecting me. Without getting all “Freud” about it, let me just say that I actually found a man who treats me as well as my father – something that’s hard to do.
By the way, every time my mother was dancing on the table my father came running to kill the mouse. He knew it wasn’t going to kill and eat her, of course. But that wasn’t the point.
It still isn’t.
My wonderful husband comes running too, even though I don’t stand on the table to get that response.
So husbands, if your wife (or girlfriend) is a table dancer, please do the gentlemanly thing and come running to rescue her. After all, she only needs a little attention and reassurance.
That’s what we all need in life.
Another thing you will never hear me say: It’s too much love or attention.
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by Angela Christian Pope @ ModernRelationship.org