Work Hard Play Hard Woman

The worst thing a woman ever did was burn her bra.

Yeah, I said it.

I get that Rosie the Riveter had to go to work when Dear John ran off to fight the Japs. I get that. Someone had to jump in those factories an keep the world’s most powerful country running.

But then Rosie had to be a man about it and refuse to leave her job. Now, thanks to that big armed bimbo, I can’t do what I was made to do and be left alone about it.

Thanks to Rosie, I’m expected to be self-sufficient. Get your license, Katelyn. Get a job. Come on, get an apartment and pay bills and blah blah blah. Look, I’ll do this stuff of I have to. I’ve got Jude and I have to put him first so don’t take what’s to follow as some kind of admission to being a lax parent. There’s the real world and there’s the fantasy land where everything I want to happen, does. What follows is hopes and dreams and a lot of hot air.

Let’s get down to basics. What are females for? Babies. We conceive, carry, and bear them. Wide hips, narrow waist, big chest is the basic formula for beauty because it’s the instinctual magic combination for fertility. We’re not as strong as men but our endurance is higher. We’re softer, smaller, and weaker by nature.

Men, on the other hand, are built for another function. We propagate the species, they provide for its welfare. With the exception of the last century, it has always been understood that men bring home the bacon. Look at the animal kingdom. Males are always dominant, fighting for females with shows of strength or competitive beauty.

To me, to me, the sexiest man is the kind who doesn’t stop until the work boots come off. Yes, work boots. I want greasy hands, the kind with scars that tell a story about metal working, machinery, carpentry. And facial hair. Whiskers under my fingers, brushing against my upper lip.. wonderful. To sum up, the more testosterone the better.

And what’s my answer to all that masculinity?

How was work, honey? Dinner’s on the table. How about a cold one? A sandwich? I’m on my way to the kitchen anyway. Oh, so much tension in your shoulders. Get a shower and I’ll be waiting for you in bed. Coffee’s on for the morning, lunch is packed in the fridge.

Here’s the thing: if I’m not happy, I’m not doing shit. Dishes, house work, laundry? If I’m not smiling, it’s gonna stay the way it is and I’ll be on my way out if you don’t catch the hint. That’s one thing I learned being married to my dreaded ex, I have to be happy to do what I should.

The thing about a man that I love is his work ethic. I’ve seen enough of what a man’s work ethic can do for his life. Really, my father figures have shown me what a man can make out of his life if he has to work. In their own way, how they provided for me very well.

And my mom. Oh, my mom. Suffice to say my mom has taught me what it is to be woman. A woman makes dinner every night. A woman makes men take their hats off at the table. A woman will knit, or shop, or …well …gossip. We’re fickle things, but with the right balance of hard work and love we do something a man simply cannot do. We are the soul of the home, an emotional temperature gage. Put simply: when we’re hot, we’re hot. We love longsufferingly, our smiles light up rooms, we cradle newborns in our arms, our lovers say we’re beautiful – we make a house a home.

Now here’s where I lose people.

I don’t believe it’s my job to be the backbone of the home. I don’t think that should be my responsibility. A man who chooses to be a provider is the yin to the woman’s yang.

Work hard, play hard. It’s the secret to life.


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