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Of dogs and damsels-in-distress

So, I’m walking my dog. I do this every day – all the time. I’m a proud servant of the pupriarchy – and he’s my main dude. Besides, he’s supremely handsome. He’s literally a teddy-bear on a leash. But here’s what makes me laugh…

We walk by some women, who, upon sight of this little fluffer, will immediately jump onto the nearest dude (their dude, their future-dude, their I-wish-he-were-my-dude dude, whatever) and shriek as if they are about to be attacked.

Girls, chill.

Firstly, he’s on a leash. He’s harmless. And he’s far too snobby to care about you. But that’s not today’s rant. What I want to say is this: I know your fear is often exaggerated. All that drama can NOT be real. You do this as part of a performance, one you’ve been socialized to do. One that you think makes you appear demure, feminine, in need of protection…

Guuuuuurl, please. Playing weak isn’t sexy. If you really are that afraid, then step aside and face it on your own. The adjacent dude is not likely to care for you more if you constantly pander to his masculinity and play small. Didn’t the damsel-in-distress trope go out of style, like, decades ago?!

O, small, helpless, feeble me! I hear you say. Protect me from this furry beast who is apt to devour me!

But is that YOU?! Rather, is that the you you actually want to be?!

[And my furry dude has no interest in devouring you unless you happen to be coated in Manchego cheese. In which case, he will just eat the cheese.]

What you’re implying is this: men don’t like strong women. Men are afraid of strong women. So you feign fragility. If that actually works for guys, those probably are not the guys you want. Anyway, where’s the reverse?! I had to actually dig around for anything on the rare Distressed Dude.

And then, there’s the actual dudes. They don’t much care, unless they’re driving. When behind the wheel, even a half-decent-only-part-subscriber-to-toxic-masculinity will put his chic-sneakered sole on the gas and speed up, screechy-sounded and all, in order to watch pupper and I jump out of the way, in fear of our 2-legged/4-legged lives.

Not fun. Not funny. Just pure assholery. Nada mas.

Sometimes I think we’re a country of cliches.

So, female friends, next time you see a little monkey on a leash, there’s no need for squeals and shrieks and sobs and sympathies. Try standing on your own finely-pedicured feet and deal with it.

Be your own hero.

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