“Are you making me into a weak woman?” I asked.
My Dom seemed confused. “Why would you think that?”
Why would I think that? Because now it seems like I’ve become used to relying on him to make every decision I don’t feel like making. I can’t decide between the chicken and the fish. Which one do I want, babe? I’m not sure if I’d like fries to go with that for only a dollar. Do I want fries, babe?
If I want something, I say so. And he doesn’t care. But if I’m hesitating, I turn to him. Even on the smallest things.
I’ve noticed an alarming pattern to my answers when my parents ask me questions. “Getting a new car? I don’t know if we’ve started looking. Ask him.” Or, “Utilities high this month? I have no idea. Ask him.” Or, “Are the bills paid on time? I don’t know. He always takes care of that.”
Last night, I noticed the pattern. I noticed this when the voice from the drive-through speakers asked me if we wanted an extra McRib for only a dollar.
McRib? I’ve never had one. I’ve heard of them; they’re rather famous. They’re supposed to be delicious, but I think they sound kind of gross, frankly. But should I try one because they’re supposed to be so good? And is a dollar a really good deal? How much do they cost usually, anyway? Is this a real bargain that I shouldn’t be passing up?
I turned to my husband, feeling slightly panicked. “Do we want the McRib?”
He didn’t seem troubled by any of the decision-making angst I was.
“No thank you,” he told the speaker confidently. I could only marvel at his decision-making ability.
But then I started to wonder. I looked at the last few months and yes, I’ve finally started leaning on him more and insisting on my way less. (Usually.) But then I started to notice that lately, I don’t make any hard decisions anymore.
“Are you making me weak?” I asked him worriedly. “Is this bad?”
“I don’t think you’re weak,” he said. “I like making decisions. It stresses you out.”
“But shouldn’t I be helping you make these big decisions?” I insisted. “Like buying a new car and bills and stuff?”
“Do you want to?”
“Well,” I said defensively. “I can. I am certainly capable of helping make them.”
“Right,” he said, unimpressed. “But do you want to?”
Well… no. Not really. But if he keeps making all the decisions for us, what if I lose my decision-making muscle? What if my decision maker gets really flabby and out of shape? What if he dies, and I’m left to care for myself and our children? Shouldn’t I be in practice, knowing how to pay bills and purchase items and manage a household and make decisions? Isn’t he putting our family at risk by allowing me to be the weak woman who relies on the stereotypical “strong man” for everything?
I voiced as much.
“I’m a smart, educated woman! You’re not using my talents for anything.”
“I do use your talents,” he protested. “You’re good at encouraging me, at reminding me to do things.”
“That’s not using my intelligence or experience,” I said stubbornly.
“It’s not,” he agreed. “I know you’re smart and capable. But I make the decisions because it doesn’t bother me to. I know it stresses you out. You can make them, but it’s easier for you not to.”
Wow. I wasn’t sure if I were grateful to him for stepping up and being a man, or worried that he was making me one of those swooning, can’t-do-anything-without-a-man, wussy women that I hate.
I guess a little of both. But it seems to work for us, at least for now.
If it ain’t broke…
