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Early in the evening after a couple of glasses of wine, the food arrived at the table. The hosts dropped platters of delicious cuisine and passed out plates. I guess each diner was expected to take a plate and serve themselves. Cool. No problem. When the hostess handed a plate my way, I nodded toward my wife indicating to pass the plate to her, because said she would be serving me.
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A beautiful sista in the corner, I think she may have been a lawyer, broke the silence with what sounded like a "shiiiiiiiii.... I've got to keep your ass away from my husband. I can't have him picking up these types of habits". Everybody fell out laughing.
The hostess told a story about her father and brothers and how her mother removed their plates after family dinners when she was a child and how she never understood it. She once said something to her mother about it in protest: "They're not crippled! They can remove their own plates!", only to be shushed up by her entire family. Although she told the story as if the incident bothered her, I noticed the memory made her smile warmly.
My wife, reached for the plate, taking it from the hostesses hand and said "Actually I enjoy making my husband's plate". She proceeded to pile on what I liked and she avoided what I don't like. She gave me extra of what she thought I needed and skipped what she didn't think was good for me. She walked around the table and placed the plate in front of me. I smiled at her and said "thank you".
There was some nervous laughter, a pregnant pause, and a silence that seemed to demand further explanation. My wife shrugged her shoulders, said something like "that's my husband. I like making his plate. I don't even think about it."
Couple of brothers chanced glances at their wives with raised eyebrows like sounds good to me. Another sister smiled, raised her glass towards my wife in salut, in a "me too" kind of fashion.
I was left with the suspicion that the initial Pavlovian protest of these young career sisters to the notion of serving their husbands lacked conviction. They wanted to make their husband's gotdamn plate too.
I got the impression they went through the motions of mock horror almost because they felt they were supposed to be horrified. Part of the uniform of the modern post feminist professional woman appears to be the flag waving championship of a gender blurred narrative of equality that divides all tasks 50 / 50.
However marriage, like nature, seems to be divided into male & female. "Equality" is overrated. Balance is supreme.
Gee Chee The Great said ...
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These men out here working jobs they hate like Cube say, "...cause my son doesn't take no for an answer." You think that ain't a Negro being a servant to his family. He/she is serving because they love. They want to please.
I'm sure DV's wife serves that beautiful little girl and those two strong young
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I've always been raised to serve the men at my table. My grandmother did it everyday, every meal. The biggest serving of meat was reserved for granddad and we never sat down to eat without him. She also made me iron his clothes. And he wasn't even the breadwinner.
I think the role of man in the home, however you define it, is irreplaceable. I recognize that even though in many respects, my grandmother knew she was more educated, financially stable and more aggressive in life, she recognized a need for my simple, easy-going, extremely charming grandfather.
I use to think that granddad had it made and he would never leave my grandma, but now I know better. My grandparents were separated for over 10 years before they reunited. I still think equality is important in unions but defining equality is relative to the people in the relationship. For my grandmother, just having someone to soften out her edge and share herself with made life worth living. For granddad, having a woman that made life interesting seemed to do it....and the fact that they raised two kids together.
I often forget to serve the men at my table, (charge it to immaturity) but surely, if reminded I would gladly do so. How the hell is not serving a dish any sign of feminism anyway? Gratitude at either side of the dinner table is so delicious.