There are 2 kinds of men in the world, those that want to go out of their way to help women lift heavy objects and those that feel women are as strong as men and can help themselves. Guess which kind of man Mr. VS happens to be?
That’s right, he’s the kind that believes that I am as strong as a man. It has come to his attention several times over the life of our relationship that this assessment is in fact not accurate and is in fact grossly inaccurate. But do you think this has changed his thinking? Not by much. Just his terminology has changed.
Mr. VS is always trying to get me to lift heavy pieces of furniture with him. Pieces that need to be moved up stairs or across rooms and are clearly heavier than I can manage with my linguine arms. But Mr. VS insists that I should be able to lift these items. He acts like he’s never seen my arms before even though we’ve been together for 8 years and I haven’t always worn long sleeves to cover my spindly and now slightly chubby but still lacking in muscle mass, dry brittle twigs. (They might be ideal for fire starting though, being dry and brittle.)
Mr. VS has several brothers so this might have something to do with his mental problems regarding women and heavy objects. He has no sister and seems to be baffled and amused by the fact that his mother is as clumsy and weak as I am. But he still keeps trying to get me to lift heavy objects and then gets mad when our joint lifting venture goes haywire. What does he expect to happen when he’s lifting with someone whose arms are made of overdone pasta?
He applied a new term to the lifting power that I do have: it’s called 2 Kitten Power. It’s like Horsepower, but much smaller. Men have horsepower (hardy har) and women with noodle arms have Kitten power. Sometimes he’ll even say…well 2 Kitten Power is better than nothing, so I’ll take it. Maybe he’s finally coming around to understanding the kind of power I’m working with in my arms?
I know you’re imagining that I’m this helpless little girly girl, but you would be wrong. I’m not helpless. In fact, I never invite with my manner, the help of anyone at all. For example, if I was alone at the airport, no one would offer to carry my bags. I look like I would rip your head off if you even smiled at me. Partly this is because of my Resting Bitch Face Syndrome, but it’s also due to the fact that I don’t want to be messed with or helped. Re. I consider anyone talking to me to be them “messing” with me. Don’t mess with me. I am APRIL LUDGATE!!
I am not a silly helpless female (most of the time, unless forced to change a tire on a car or use power tools in which case I can adopt that helpless I’m dumb look in an instant). But most of the time, I’m doing just fine on my own, although I do find it nice to lean on Mr. VS to do things for me when I’m feeling lazy. Like getting him to hang artwork, when I could probably do it myself, but he knows that I have a tendency to “screw up,” so he has to tread carefully on what he insists I do on my own.
I’m laughing at myself while writing this because I paint 2 pictures. I am helpless and stupid about doing stuff on my own and also I can damn well take care of myself, damn you! I want it both ways. Contradictions are what I’m best at.
The other funny thing is that I keep wanting to write…if the lifting was all about the legs, I’d be just fine! My legs are much better than my little t-rex arms. But…lifting is supposed to be with the legs. At least that’s what Home Depot will tell you. This is all fine and good until your t-rex arms are forced to carry something large and unwieldy with someone else across a room or up stairs. Then those poor little arms are liable to snap under the pressure of holding up the heavy item with only the barest fingerhook and tiniest muscle mass between destruction and success. Those odds don’t seem very good. They seem piss poor.
It seems like disaster is destined to strike your endeavor and therefore destroy the precious item you are carrying resulting in the rage of your delusional spouse. Why would you WANT that to happen? When you know ahead of time you can’t lift said item and you tell your spouse and they look at you like you’re crazy and are definitely strong enough and then you say…if you wanted me to be as strong as a man, you should have married a man. So there.
Enough bullshit…Let’s just get down to brass tacks here. I’m a weakling with a body builder complex: Don’t mess with me and my angel hair pasta arms! I both accept my weakness and minimize it. I’m proud and yet ashamed. I also expect Mr. VS to know I’m weak (without me having to say so, GAWD!) and therefore I don’t expect or want to be asked to lift things BUT… I also don’t want strangers to help me lift things or to appear weak to anyone. I do want Mr. VS to be my slave and lift everything I don’t want to lift and use power tools with his amazing prowess so that I don’t “screw up,” but mostly because I’m lazy and don’t want to do things myself and make claims that he’s so much better at it than me.
I just thought of the fact that Mr. VS tries to pull this card all the time: “I can’t do the grocery shopping cause you’ll know I’ll screw up and buy the wrong stuff. You know I can’t be trusted.”
Basically we pull the same exact shit, pretending to be bad at something so we don’t have to do it. We’re both perfectly capable of using power tools and grocery shopping. However, I might accidentally hurt myself or destroy something with power tools, just FYI and Mr. VS is likely to come home with 10 cans of tuna, 5 of baked beans, 17 jars of pasta sauce and 2 boxes of unnecessary pasta (angel hair).
Also this makes me laugh: