Yes, yesterday I spoke of women and spoons. Today I am talking about women and mountains. The humor is not lost on me but incredibly intentional. I like puns almost as much as my oldest friend’s father did and though that isn’t a pun, word play is almost always cool. I mean, isn’t it ironic? Don’t ya think?
And no it isn’t ironic and neither is most of that song. The song is salted with nuance and peppered with implications that don’t match the expectations, so, to many people it tastes the same. That is definitely close enough to ironic that poetic license lets us label it so.
Let us get back to women and mountains.
Yesterday, I made reference to the strength a woman has in a crisis and how important it is to me. I mean, it is one of the most comforting things in the world to see how my mom responds to world ending catastrophes. She stands there like a mountain in a storm. She doesn’t bend. She doesn’t break. Lightning sometimes leaves a scar, but doesn’t change the mountain much. If it rains for years, she changes in small ways. The wind slowly erodes her.
Yet, in the perfect storm, when hurricanes and tornadoes come together, I know I can turn to her. It doesn’t matter when the gates of hell have opened and the hounds are running free searching to drag me down, my mother will tell me it’s going to be fine. She has set the bar very high for what I expect of women in crisis, but from the little I’ve learned of women over the years, it’s not hard to see that the rest of you are built, generally, to be the same.
It is one of the most annoying traits of women, and I am pretty sure I can get a general consensus from most of the men you know. You want to talk about the crisis. You want to talk about everything that is going wrong. And you want me to sit there like a mountain and do nothing. It is why I turn to women when I want to say something and have someone sit there like a mountain. I understand how comforting it is, but I am not a mountain. I know exactly what you crave of me when you do it. I try to give it to you. But I am not built for it. What little I give you, appreciate, because it is so hard for me to give. I am not wired like you. You know I am not wired like that. You may, in moments of crisis, wish I was, but if you are a woman and close enough to me to talk about crises, you really don’t wish I was wired differently than I am.
And though I can’t give that to you, I expect it from you. That does not give you any right to call me a hypocrite. That makes me an informed and calculated sexist. If you want to pin negative labels on my chest, please use the right ones. Let me quickly explain that label. I bring my troubles to you so that I can lay my head in your lap and you can stroke my hair and tell me it will be okay, like a puppy. Like a puppy, you can bring me your sorrow and I may wag my tail and pant while you talk, but I will listen. Like a puppy, you can bring me real trouble and I will rip its face off and won’t stop fighting until someone is dead. Never forget that pit bulls are puppies too.