Chivalry

Chivalry: (n) readiness to help the weak, associated with knights

Leave it to America to take a tradition of kindness to the poor and those less fortunate and attribute it solely to caring for and even wooing the female of the species.

The first insult comes in assuming that women are weaker. Of course, there are plenty of ladies who are more than prepared to carry a lesser
load. And some gentlemen who are duped into thinking that opening car doors is the prerequisite to opening vaginas.

So it becomes a game of cat and mouse, which, as I recall, is not really a game at all, but rather, a duel to the death, with the mouse always victimized.

It just seems to me that you cannot insist on using chivalry on women without also promoting the idea that they are desperately in need of attention.

I like the original definition. Candidly, there are times I am weak. I welcome a little chivalry–even if it comes from the opposite sex.

But our country is very cluttered by its own tangled web of misconceptions:

  • Women are not weaker–just promoted to be that way so men can feel stronger.
  • Men are not chivalrous when they condescend to women, but rather, chauvinists.

If you’re not sure if you should give a lady your assistance, then just ask. She will let you know.

And then you will actually have an experience in equality.

 

 

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Bluster

Bluster: (n) loud, aggressive, or indignant talk with little effect.

Dictionary B

I believe the goal is to acquire interest.

Whether you’re trying to sell a new car, preach the gospel, gain the attention of the opposite sex or get someone’s vote, the possibility is impaired if you cannot acquire interest.

How do you get people interested?

Amazingly, after everything is boiled down, you’re left with the remainder of the expressions in human life. You end up with fear and love.

They do not get along with each other. Love chases away fear, and fear, likewise, scares the hell out of love.

Therefore, since we are insecure about the notion of creating devotion through emotion, we often resort to the tactic of frightening those around us into submitting to our will.

We bluster.

We find obscure statistics, isolated incidents and horrific anomalies, and advertise them as if they are the norm.

In the process, the car dealer has to convince you that your vehicle is ready to explode. The preacher talks about the heat and humidity in hell, the dating service on the Internet tries to present you as a loser if you’re spending a Saturday night alone, and of course, every candidate wants to discuss “a planet ablaze,” which he or she alone can save.

Although bluster has become acceptable, it is damnable because it pushes fear to the forefront, terrifying our love.

 

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Bale

Bale (n): a bundle of hayDictionary B

I think she liked me.

I know I liked her.

I don’t know how much I liked her. When you’re a teenager you’re so anxious to have romantic encounters that you’re willing to consider many obtuse options. It is amazing who looks good to you by Thursday afternoon at school when you really want to go out on a date for the weekend.

All summer long, I had been driving around town with this girl as we tried to conjure various adventures, while experimenting with conversation, learning how to communicate with someone of the opposite sex.

One day I told her I wanted to go out to a nearby farm and see my friend, Jack, who was working there baling hay. He chose this occupation in order to get in shape for the upcoming football season.

I knew she had a small crush on Jack, but I was not aware of the full extent of her hidden affections. When we arrived at the barn and Jack appeared in the doorway of the upper loft, shirtless, holding a pitchfork, with perspiration streaming down his pectorals, she lost it.

He looked like an image from a John Steinbeck novel, perfectly framed, with a sweaty, well-chiseled body. I peered down at my own well-nourished middle as she practically drooled, staring at the sight before her.

I thought to myself, this was not a good move, to come and see Jack.

We spent the rest of the day driving around, talking about how handsome Jack was and discussing how I should help her make connection with him.

I felt completely left out.

Rather than being the pursuer of budding romance, I was cast into the role of matchmaker.

I explained that I had planned to work on the farm this year, but discovered that I had hay fever.

She squinted, concern in her eyes, and said, “Hay fever?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Whenever I think about working in the hay fields, I break out into a sweat of great anxiety and fear.”

I thought it was particularly funny.

She didn’t even fathom my joke, but instead stared out the window … obviously conjuring images of a topless Jack. 

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