Saturday, August 23, 2008

Independence v. Responsibility

It has been firmly established in modern America that women are fiercely independent and calling their own shots in life. Why wait around for others to do for you when you can do for yourself?

This is part of the ongoing change in definition of gender roles. This is not to say men have lost their place as decision makers but rather must accept that women have their say and must be listened to.

But I do find it odd that such fiercely independent women who by their own admission want to call more of the shots and crave control will, at their leisure, decide to throw it back in the laps of men when they do not want certain responsibilities.

I have seen this most often when it comes to nights out on the town. I know, and have dated, some women who insist on being the boss yet get angry when a man “allows” them to drink too much.

How are we supposed to handle this Catch-22? If a man steps in and suggests you slow down on the booze, he becomes the bad guy for trying to impose his will over a woman. But if he doesn’t step in and the woman drinks too much, he is to blame?

I have seen this both as the man with the boozy date and hearing it from female friends complaining about guys not stopping them.

So I want to know…do you want a guy to tell you to stop drinking, or are you “grown” and ready to be in charge of yourself?

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Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away